Ascension Day

24

‘Try… try and remember.’

Durrant looked at Jac levelly. ‘You think I haven’t tried, time and over again these past long years, to remember more — fill the gaps? Haven’t had too much else worth thinking about.’ Durrant shook his head, smiling crookedly. ‘You think it’s all going to magically come back to me just because you’re pushing?’

‘I know.’ Jac closed his eyes for a second in acceptance. ‘But this could be our last shot at this, Larry. Our very last shot.’

‘Don’t you think I know that too?’ Durrant arched an eyebrow sharply. ‘Believe me, I’m trying… raking and going over everything I’ve ever recalled these past years. Every damn thing.’

They were on the same side now, pulling in the same direction, but it would have been easy to believe from their often heated exchange of the past half-hour that they weren’t. Still stuck in the same mould of Jac pushing hard and Durrant resisting; except that this time it was Durrant’s lack of memory providing the resistance. Trying to push beyond the shadows that shrouded his life of twelve years ago, the effort creasing and raising sweat on his brow.

The room they were in was hot and claustrophobic. No windows. No one-way mirror with guards looking on. No faint murmur or sounds of the prison beyond — the surrounding walls were sixteen-inches of thick concrete.

Jac had requested privacy from Haveling and had got it in spades. They’d been allocated one of Libreville’s ‘Quiet Rooms’. Originally constructed for prisoners who’d gone mad so that their ranting and screaming didn’t disturb anyone, prisoners or guards, they’d hardly been used since the opening of a dedicated sanatorium wing twelve years ago.

Back in those dark days, inmates would be leather-strapped to beds and chairs bolted to the floor. Now the room was completely bare, and a small table and two chairs had been brought in. Jac and Durrant sat facing each other.

Their voices echoed faintly in the bare concrete room, the silence when they weren’t talking so absolute that when the door spy-hatch had been slid back eight minutes ago — the only guard check so far — it had sounded like a rifle shot, making them jump. On the table between them were Jac’s hand-held recorder, its cassette slowly turning, and his notepad.

Jac took a fresh breath. ‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.’ He flicked back a page in his notes, then to the front again. ‘These regular pool games were usually Tuesday, Thursday or Saturday nights — with no particular pattern as to which night?’

‘That’s right. It was usually one of those nights — at most two in the week, but not too often.’ Durrant grimaced. ‘Some of the guys didn’t want to get flak from staying out half the week.’

‘You say some of the guys. Did that not include you?’

‘From what I remember, I was better after Josh was born.’ Durrant shrugged lamely. ‘But I was still drifting off some nights to other bars.’ Durrant caught Jac’s look. ‘Don’t ask — ‘cause I hardly remembered then, let alone now. The only one that I ended up recalling, probably from reading Coleridge, was the “Ain’t Showin’ Mariner” — along Marais Street, if I remember right.’ Durrant smiled briefly, the rest of what he was reaching for sinking back quickly into shadow. ‘Probably changed hands a dozen times since.’

Jac made a brief note before looking up again. ‘Anywhere else you can think of?

‘There was a regular poker game I used to go to. But that was always on a Friday, if it was on. Sometimes we’d miss a week.’

‘Or anyone else that you could have been with that night?’

Durrant thought briefly. ‘Not that I can think of. And that’s not just because it might have slipped from my memory after the accident. I just don’t think there was anyone I was seeing then — at least not regularly.’

‘So — no other women then?’

Durrant smiled slyly. ‘I know that was what Franny thought some nights I was out. But no — it was just me and my pool buddies. Or me and a hand of cards. Or me and a bottle. Or, if Truelle’s tape and the evidence is right — ’ Durrant’s expression darkened — ‘Me and more house break-ins. Ain’t no damsel suddenly going to come out of the wings to save my ass.’

‘Okay.’ Jac held Durrant’s gaze for a second before nodding his acceptance. ‘Going back to these pool games at the “Bayou Brew”. If you can’t remember which night your game might have been the week of Jessica Roche’s murder — could anyone else there?’

Durrant shook his head slowly. ‘Doubt it. When I was arrested, already six months had passed. Even if I had remembered the game then as a possible alibi and the police had talked to the people there — they’d have had problems remembering by then. When I did finally recall the pool games and one of my playing buddies — Nat Hadley — we’re talking three years later, just before the appeal. Coultaine spoke to him on the phone, but he couldn’t remember which night it was that week. Now, twelve years on — forget it.’

Thursday night, that was the crucial night. Jac had circled it on his notepad. If Durrant had been playing pool then and had stayed until 10.30, 11 p.m., then he couldn’t have been halfway across town killing Jessica Roche.

‘What about the other two in the game?’

‘Bill Saunders and Ted Levereaux.’ Durrant blinked slowly. ‘I couldn’t remember either of them back then. Still can’t picture them fully even now — their names were given to Coultaine by Hadley. Coultaine spoke to Saunders, but he couldn’t recall which night it was either, and Levereaux he wasn’t able to contact. He’d moved to St Louis, then apparently on again from the last number given.’

Jac nodded pensively. He could try to locate Levereaux, it was an unusual enough name that it shouldn’t be that difficult to track down, and perhaps go back also to the other two to try and jog their memories. But, as Durrant had pointed out, what were the chances of anyone remembering after twelve years?

There’d have been other people there, though, Jac reminded himself: Bar staff, waitresses, perhaps people on set shifts that would have a better chance of remembering which night it might have been. Jac asked, ‘Did Coultaine try any of the bar staff at Bayou Brew?’

‘No, he never got into that.’ Durrant shrugged. ‘But again we’re facing that twelve-year gap. Staff all long-gone, bar changed hands, or maybe even isn’t there any longer.’

But as Durrant’s shoulders slumped, Jac found himself more fired-up. Work rosters, payslips giving working times, maybe even someone who kept a diary? Jac shared his thoughts with Durrant. ‘We’ve only got to find one person who used to keep some sort of written record, and we’ve struck gold. We’re not relying on twelve-year-old memories any more.’

‘Yeah, suppose so,’ Durrant agreed, half hopeful, half sneer. ‘Don’t have much else worth trying.’ Then, sudden afterthought, he shrugged and smiled wanly. ‘That is, if they’ve still got those records or diaries after twelve years?’

Jac nodded soberly, rubbing one temple.

Something vital and elemental had changed between himself and Durrant since their last meeting. Before, Durrant had been indolent, uncooperative. Now he was helpful, cooperative and finally appreciative of what Jac was doing. There’d been a maudlin moment when Jac started the interview and Durrant looked across at him meaningfully, his eyes moistening.

‘I went hard on you last time, and I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t called for. You put your neck out for me, and there’s not many would do that. But with me being such an ass, you might have got the impression I don’t appreciate what you’re doing — but that ain’t so. I do.’ Durrant twisted his mouth as if something still didn’t quite sit comfortably. Only total honesty would do. ‘Or rather, maybe I didn’t last time — but now I do. You’re all right.’

But there was still something holding Durrant back, and often he was still defeatist; though where before he’d been couldn’t-care-less and relaxed, now he was tense and anxious. Perhaps it was that death was now that much closer, only fifteen days away, and it was finally hitting him.

Given that, and the fact that everything tried before had failed, Jac could hardly blame Durrant for looking on the down-side. With contact again from Josh, no doubt he did now want to live, cling to hope, as Jac had earlier sold him so hard on; but, worn down by the trial, the failed appeal, the long years of imprisonment, abandoned by his family for much of it, and throughout it all not even sure whether he had committed the murder or not — he’d probably given up long ago on just how that might be achieved. Distant dream.

A handful of old pool-buddies and the bar they used to play at now his only remaining hope.

Jac spent a while filling in details, those that Durrant could remember, then stopped the tape.

Faint rustling, shuffling.

Alaysha went to the door and looked through the spy-hole. Nobody there. She cupped one hand over her far ear to mask the sounds of Molly watching Rugrats in the lounge. No sounds now, either.

Second time in the past half hour she thought she’d heard something. Probably just people passing on the corridor or Mrs Orwin shuffling around and being nosy, rather than anyone hanging around outside.

She’d been anxious and on edge ever since Gerry had called at her door, particularly with what he’d shouted through the forced gap. She’d countered quickly that he couldn’t say anything because he’d be implicated too.

‘That’s the beauty of it, babe. I was just a go-between, made an introduction. All that was ever passed to me in envelopes at the bar were receipts. It’s the courier they’ll be looking for — and that’s you, babe. That’s you.’

Then when she’d read the news clipping the other day, her nervousness had leapt to a new level. Maybe Gerry had already said something, and they’d started targeting those involved. Maybe the knock would come at her door at any minute and…

She tried to put it out of her mind, concentrate on what she should prepare for dinner for herself and Molly. But opening the fridge and kitchen cupboard doors, she found herself staring blankly at their contents, unable to focus on anything. And when the bell did ring a couple of minutes later, it made her jump.

A voice, partly muffled by the TV, came through the door ‘It’s okay Alaysha… it’s Jac.’

Molly was quickly on her feet confirming it as Alaysha passed her to answer the door. ‘It’s Jac, Mommy… it’s Jac.’

‘I know. I know.’ Alaysha felt the weight ease from her chest. Probably the sound a moment ago had been Jac going into his apartment; or perhaps he’d disturbed whoever was in the corridor, if there was anyone. She slid back the top lock and turned the door handle as she unhooked the chain with her other hand.

Then, as she caught the shape of who was there, before he’d even looked up fully beyond the baseball cap peak partly obscuring his face — she went to ram it shut again.

She broke two fingernails clawing the chain back on, but she couldn’t get the door closed the last inch. Gerry’s weight was quickly against the other side, pushing hard.

‘So that is his fucking name! Jac! Your new boyfriend.’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Stock reaction, breathless from the exertion of pushing against the door, her mind scrambling for how he might have found out.

‘Yes, you do. And you sounded real pleased to hear it was him. Never answered the door that quick to me — even when we were at our hottest.’

‘What are you doing here, Gerry? You got my lawyers’ letter?’

‘Yeah, I got your smarmy fuckin’ lawyers’ letter.’

He thrust harder against the door as he said it, and she couldn’t hold it back any longer. It burst hard against the chain, rattling.

‘Is that Gerry, Mommy? Wh… why’s he being like that?’

Alaysha looked back at Molly a few paces away, pulling anxiously at a few strands of hair, trying to be adult to cope with the situation.

Alaysha’s anger surged, fuelling a white-hot adrenalin burst. She barged the door back an inch, felt the satisfaction of a grunt from Gerry as he took the impact.

‘I won’t have it, Gerry. I won’t have you coming round here terrifying Molly. We’re getting a court restraining order, yer hear? You come round here again — next stop for you is a jail cell!’

‘Yeah.’ Challenging, sliding into a mocking chuckle. ‘You do that, and you’re dead, babe. You’re — ’

Gerry broke off as Mrs Orwin’s door opened behind him. And, as he half-turned with the distraction, Alaysha managed to shove the door closed the last inch and flip back the latch.

There were a few words spoken between Mrs Orwin and Gerry that Alaysha couldn’t make out clearly beyond her ragged breathing and pounding heart. Last time Gerry called, Mrs Orwin had been late in opening her door; no doubt because she’d been watching some soap at 200 decibels.

Alaysha swallowed, holding her breath for a second, listening. Silence for a second, then a light tapping at her door. Gerry or Mrs Orwin? Alaysha looked through the spy-hole. Gerry was silently mouthing something which she couldn’t make out; obviously he didn’t want to audibly threaten with Mrs Orwin still looking on through the gap in her door. But shielded from Mrs Orwin’s view by his body, the signal he made with one hand was unmistakeable: a gun pointing, his thumb flicking down like the hammer striking.

Gerry brought his face closer as he mouthed a kiss goodbye, his features warped all the more by the fish-eye of the spy-hole.

Jac looked at the rain on the cafe window as he took the first sips of his coffee. Large splatters spaced a second apart — which had been enough to bring him in from the street — teasing, warning of the deluge to come. And when it did arrive a minute later, the patter building like the drumming of impatient fingers before finally bursting loose, Jac could hardly see the street beyond for the water running down the glass; everything became a blurred pastel grey.

‘Yo’ okay there, Jac? Maybe wanna ‘nother Po’ boy?’

‘No, I’m okay, Henny. Thanks.’

Then, as Henny saw him look thoughtfully back through the window. ‘Don’ worry. Mack‘ll sho’. He’s slow an’ sometime annoyin’ as hell. But he ain’ forgetful. Not yet, at leas’.’

Jac nodded and smiled again. ‘No problem. I’m here early because of the rain.’

Momma Henshaw, more affectionately, Henny, or sometimes Momma Henpeck, because of the cafe she’d run for the past twenty-five years, The Red Rooster. A regular Ninth Ward landmark, according to some of the locals Jac had spoken to, ‘An’ she one of yo’ best hopes fo’ information’ on anythin’ and everythin’ from ‘roun here. ‘Specially from years back.’

Jac’s enquiries hadn’t been getting far. The Bayou Brew was now Jay-Jay Cool’s. The new owner, Jay Cole, had been there three years and knew only the name of the guy he’d bought it from, not any of its history before that. ‘And I think he only had the place two years — so I ain’t sure how far back his recall would go, either. But I can give you his name and number.’

Jac took them, and phoned on his cell-phone minutes later. Miraculously, given his luck so far, it was answered on the second ring: but he too only remembered the name of the owner in turn before him, Rob Harlenson — who Jac had already discovered died two years ago from Bill Saunders, the only one of Durrant’s old pool-buddies he’d so far tracked down. He didn’t know the old staff or the head barman, hadn’t kept any of them on when he took over.

Jac was particularly interested in Mack Elliott, the old head barman from the Bayou Brew. With Harlenson dead, Elliott might be the only one to know about past staff records and rosters: just who might have been working the night Jessica Roche was killed, and whether that could possibly have been Durrant and his buddies pool night. Saunders didn’t know where he might find Elliott.

Jac looked at the other two names on his pad: Nat Hadley and Ted Levereaux. He’d phoned Hadley yesterday and was told by his wife that he worked night shifts. Jac had left his cell-phone number, but no call back as yet. The trail with Levereaux petered out at his last known address in St Louis; and, while it might be an unusual name, a search in all states south from Missouri to Louisiana had alone brought up one hundred and twelve, seventeen with initials E or T. Jac had phoned nine of the seventeen E amp; Ts before it got too close to midnight to be calling any more; and, if the phone was in Levereaux’s wife’s name, he’d have to trawl through all hundred and twelve.

Jac felt worn down by it all: the endless phone calls, delays, dead-ends, the head-shakes as he’d asked about Mack Elliott or any of the old staff at the Bayou Brew. And, as Durrant rightly pointed out, even if and when he did track them down, what on earth were they going to remember after twelve years? Jac had a sinking, desolate feeling that he’d still be tramping the streets of the Ninth Ward and making phone calls that went nowhere as they strapped Durrant down for his injection.

Only thirteen days left now.

And as Henny had seen Jac’s hand shaking lifting his coffee cup, his gaze through the window weary and lost, she’d asked if he was okay.

The light was sinking fast through the window of The Red Rooster, as if mirroring Jac’s mood. He was only able to get to the Ninth Ward at lunchtimes and after work, as dusk was falling; now, second night there, the rain and clouds had smothered the remaining light even quicker.

The only brief spark of hope had appeared earlier, towards the end of his lunchtime visit when, sixth or seventh head-shake on Mack Elliott or the old Bayou Brew, someone finally pointed him towards Henny’s cafe. But Henny had already seen him through the window asking questions in the street, with one of her old regulars, Izzy, lifting a bony finger her way, and so she had one hand on her hip to greet Jac as he walked in.

‘What’s a white bo’ like you doin’ askin’ questions roun’ the Ninth Ward? Yo’ a cop, or y’jus’ got a death wish?’

‘No, I’m a lawyer.’

Henny arched one eyebrow extravagantly. ‘Oooh. Yo’ have gotta death wish.’

Jac explained about Durrant and trying to track down Mack Elliott or any of the old Bayou Brew staff.

Henny nodded thoughtfully, taking the hand from her hip and gesturing to a table. ‘Tryin’ to save Larry Durrant’s neck, put a differen’ complexion on it. But yo’ still wanna be careful askin’ questions roun’ the Ninth — whit’ bo’ in a nice suit an’ all. Yo’ might not be able to spit alla dat out befo’ someone takes yo’ head off with a shotgun.’

Henny gave Jac a potted guide to the Ninth Ward. Safe around the main jazz clubs on St Claude Avenue, but venture a couple of blocks either way and it was a dangerous no-man’s land, particularly at night and particularly if you were white.

Almost exclusively African-American, the birthplace of Louis Armstrong, Fats Domino and a long list of jazz greats through the years, on one side the Ninth Ward had a rich and proud cultural heritage; but on the other, its gritty underbelly was still dirt poor, and a place that half the city’s muggers, robbers and drug dealers called home. The police never ventured too deep into the lower Ninth at night unless they were two or three strong, hands close by their guns in readiness.

‘…And if yo’ were fool ‘nough to drift s‘far as Tricou or Dalery on the north side, presumin’ yo’ was still alive by dat point… you might s’well jus’ phone the funeral parlo’ befo’ yo’ get dere. Tell ‘em where t’pick up yo’ body.’

Jac smiled. Looked like he’d survived so far through ignorance and luck, with Henny’s cafe now at least one safe haven. And, most importantly, she did know Mack Elliott and where to get hold of him, and had phoned him to arrange a meeting at her cafe.

Duck Gumbo, Dirty Rice, Boiled Crawfish, Beef P’Boy — Henny’s was noted for its grass-roots Creole cuisine, her reputation stretching far beyond the Ninth Ward. No-frills but homely with red plastic tablecloths, a gospel version of ‘Praise You’ played in the background, one that Jac hadn’t heard before; the sort of place where you’d expect Aretha Franklin to suddenly stand up from a table and burst into song, or the Blues Brothers start doing somersaults through. Instead, Mack Elliott walked in, tall, rangy, slightly hunched over with age, or perhaps through constantly reaching down to greet people.

Henny called over to Jac that it was him, otherwise he wouldn’t have known. And as Jac stood to shake Mack’s hand, whether just hopeful thinking or the setting sun dipping below the cloud layer, he thought he saw fresh light hanging over Mack Elliott’s shoulder.

But what Jac didn’t notice as they sat back down and started talking was the dark maroon Pontiac Bonneville parked thirty yards back on the opposite side of the street. Nel-M sat inside, obscured by the fading light and the water running down his windscreen. He’d only started following Jac again earlier that day, but already he was beginning to wonder.

Alaysha couldn’t stay there any longer.

Every small sound: movement on the corridor, Mrs Orwin or someone else further along opening their door, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the muted sounds of neighbours from the floor above — twisted her nerves another notch tighter, made her worry that Gerry might head back to try and get in again. Or someone else threatening far worse.

She couldn’t shift that last image of Gerry from her head. The gun pointing, the trigger hammer going down.

It would be okay if Jac was there. Feel him hugging her tight, stroking her hair, consoling. They’d sink themselves deep into a bottle of good Chateauneuf… but still she wouldn’t be able to tell him everything.

She’d been listening out, but still no sounds of him opening his door or moving around. Where was he?

She felt alone, vulnerable, unprotected… unprotected!

As soon as the thought hit her, she turned to Molly. ‘Come on, Molly, we’re going over to your Granma’s.’

Halfway over to Carrollton in the taxi, Molly asked, ‘Am I staying at Granma’s tonight?’

‘No, no. I’m just picking something up there.’ Then, remembering that with all the fuss she’d forgotten to cook dinner. ‘And we’ll get a pizza on the way back.’

‘Yeah… yeah! Pizza! Pizza!’

Alaysha pulled Molly in close, her smile fading back to taut anxiety, unseen by Molly, as she nestled one cheek against her daughter’s hair.

Alaysha wondered if her mother still had the gun. An old Colt.38 she’d got hold of when she’d finally kicked out Alaysha’s father, fearful that he’d return any day to give her an even worse beating.

Same too now with Gerry, she’d explain. But again, she wouldn’t be able to tell her mother everything. That would have to stay her secret. Just her and Gerry’s.

Jac’s own breathing within the hood.

All he could hear. All he could feel: his own hot breath bouncing back at him, stewing his pounding head all the more.

And the occasional prod with the gun in his back. ‘Move mo’fucker. Move! This way… yeah. What’s wrong — yo’ blind or somethin’.’

Brief chuckle; but one, from what Jac had seen of the two edgy, bug-eyed teenagers before the hoods were put on him and Mack Elliott, that could easily end with an impatient gunshot for stepping the wrong way or saying the wrong thing, or because the kids’ last few hours on their Gameboys had been frustrating.

Jac was beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea.

As Jac had half-expected, Mack Elliott hadn’t been able to recall which night Durrant’s pool game was the week of Jessica Roche’s murder. ‘Long time ago now… long time.’

‘I know. But I wondered if you might have kept a diary or anything with old work rosters that could give a clue?’

‘No. ‘Fraid not.’ Then, seconds later, his sullen thoughtfulness lifted. ‘Might be a chance of yo’ striking lucky, though. Might jus’ be a chance.’

Mack explained that there were two eight-hour shifts at the Bayou Brew, with a barman and waitress for each one, and himself and the owner, Rob Harlenson, alternately running the bar. And one of the barmen, Lenny Rillet, used to keep a diary.

‘…Though not fo’ the best of reasons.’ Mack looked down at that moment, thoughtful, troubled, as he weighed something up. ‘Probably the best shot you’re gonna get at it, though. C’mon. You’ll be safe wi’ me.’

Mack explained as they headed deeper into the Ninth Ward. Lenny Rillet used to keep a diary because he was dealing drugs from behind the bar. Small stuff then, packets of marijuana and speed, for which he’d enter times, names, weights and payments in his diary in code.

‘Harlenson was already suspicious, found one o’ the diaries one day, and finally got rid of Lenny. But that was way after Larry Durrant wen’ down. And I know Lenny used to hang on to those diaries, ‘cause in each one he’d have new names an’ contact numbers. Business resource, yo’ might call it…. ‘specially with how things turned out later wi’ Lenny.’

Rillet had either left drug-dealing for a while, or stayed so small time that nobody noticed. But then suddenly five years ago, he’d burst back on the scene big time, and now was one of the Ninth Ward’s main crack dealers.

‘Only a couple o’ blocks away now. We’ll be there soon.’

Jac felt his anxiety mount as they sank deeper into the shadows of the Ninth Ward; now four blocks from Henny’s, the efforts at revival with reformations or newer community blocks started to fray, giving way to rows of older houses, many of them dilapidated or derelict. The light was sparser too, with many of the streetlamps smashed, the shadows in between heavier, more worrying. A wino suddenly appeared from one dark patch, making them jump — though Mack commented that he was probably playing look-out for someone; then, only twenty yards on, two sets of eyes emerged from the darkness of a car on bricks, watching them warily as they passed.

‘Don’ worry, you’ll be safe with me… Now he’s one of the Ninth’s main crack dealers… You might s’well jus’ phone the funeral parlo’ befo’ yo’ get dere.’

Late fifties, Mack Elliott was already slightly out of breath; though maybe that was partly anxiety, too, Jac thought, because suddenly he wasn’t so sure how safe they’d be. Certainly the nods and smiles of acknowledgment Mack gave to the few people they passed were now tighter, more hesitant.

And as they came to the row of eight half-derelict shotgun houses that Lenny Rillet apparently called home, and Mack announced himself as an ‘old frien’’ of Rillet’s and the hoods were slipped on them by two armed teenagers, Jac’s foreboding settled deeper.

Shotgun houses were four or five rooms stacked back to back with no corridor; so called, because if you fired a shotgun at the front, the bullet would pass through every room.

In the last minute of their approach, Mack had explained that Rillet would move from room to room: he could be in the second room of the fourth house, or third room back on the sixth. Nobody ever knew. And all visitors were hooded and spun round several times to disorientate them before being led through. Two or three armed teenage ‘clockers’ out front, half a dozen or more inside, plus two or three older, more experienced guards. Few people knew what Rillet looked like, and the chances of getting to him before catching a bullet were remote. ‘That’s how he’s managed to stay alive s’far.’

And now the smells as they were led through: stale musk, urine, faeces, vomit, a pungent burning, like rubber mixed with rope, and a faint chemical smell that Jac couldn’t place.

And now sounds: muted mumbling, coughing, a few groans, a sudden wild cackle subsiding to a chuckle. And every few steps, Jac could feel debris or rubbish around his feet, or maybe it was clothing and people. Something brushed past one ankle: a hand reaching out, or a rat?

Jac felt himself descend deeper into hell with each step. His head was burning inside the hood, his pulse pounding at his temples, his mouth dry. Each step had taken them further into the shadows and into danger, away from the light and safety; now, within only fifteen minutes, Henny’s cafe seemed a lifetime away. I’ll be okay, Jac told himself. Mack had promised, ‘You’ll be safe with me.’

But as he heard Rillet’s tone greeting Mack, and the argument that ensued between them, Jac felt that last vestige of hope slip away. He knew then that they were about to die.

‘Why yo’ bring someone here, Mack?’

‘He… he’s the lawyer tryin’ to save Larry Durrant. That’s why I brought ‘im to see you.’

‘Uhhmmm. Larry Durrant? You think that’s gonna score points wi’ me. You an’ I — we ain’t eyeballed each other in what? Six, seven years? So fo’ sure you don’ score no points there, Mack.’

‘He’s tryin’ to get some information on Larry’s movements at the Brew from twelve years back. I couldn’t help with that. And I thought yo’ might be able to.’

‘An’ even when we used to see each other, we din’ ‘xactly swim in the same waters… if yo’ know what I mean.’

It was like two disparate conversations, with neither party listening to the other: Mack desperately pleading his case of Durrant and the Bayou Brew of twelve years ago, while Rillet was making it clear that their past association cut no ice and Mack had made a big mistake in coming there.

Mack took a fresh breath, introduced a more hopeful tone. ‘Thing is, Lenny, I thought to myself, while yo’ might not remember that far back — you always kep’ those diaries.’

As soon as the words left Mack’s mouth, it became chillingly clear that it was a step in the wrong direction: sealed rather than saved their fates.

‘Ooohh. Those diaries? Yeah. Funny thing that, ‘cause, ya know — I always suspected it was you that told Harlenson ‘bout them. Got my ass fired from the Brew.’

‘Wasn’t me, Lenny… Promise. Harlenson was already suspicious, and he foun’ that diary that day all by hi’self — without no help from me. I didn’ say nothin’ to him.’

The desperation in Mack’s voice was heavy, clinging by his fingertips to what little ledge was left.

Silence. Rillet let Mack’s words hang in the air, savouring his discomfort.

‘Yo’ know, Mack. That’s where all your figurin’ has gone sadly wrong. Since you and I were on noddin’ terms, I changed mo’ than yo’ can imagine. I’ve had guys killed here simply ‘cause I didn’ like the tones o’ their voices. Didn’ think they gave me ‘nough respect. Or ‘cause I thought a splash o’ red on the walls would bring the graffiti more to life.’ Resigned, derisory snigger. ‘So wi’ the heavy doubt I got ‘bout what you jus’ tol’ me — what makes yo’ think now’s gonna be any differen’? ’

Silence again. Heavy, cloying.

And then, breaking it after a second, sounding deafeningly loud, the slide on a gun being snapped back.

‘Please…. Lenny. Don’ do it. I’m not here for myself. I’m here tryin’ to save Larry Durrant’s ass. Nothin’ more.’

Silence again. Longer than before.

Jac found that his breath was held, his body starting to shake, legs weakening as he anticipated the gunshot at any second.

‘That’s the beauty of the hoods. You can’t see m’ face. Don’ know if I’m smilin’, scowlin’, makin’ the signal to fire — or wavin’ my boyz’ gun arms away.’ A purposeful pause, Rillet wallowing in their fear; a conductor’s baton poise that could fall either way. ‘An even if I am smilin’ or wavin’ them away right now — that could all quickly change.’

Jac jumped with Rillet’s sudden clap; only a foot behind himself and Mack, it was no doubt intended to resemble a gunshot. Jac was hit with the realization that Rillet had probably done this before, many times; and that he relished the feeling of power it gave him over his victims. And, riding aboard that, the hope, however slim, that it was just that, a game, and Rillet wouldn’t have them killed.

Silence again, Rillet milking the tension for every ounce. Jac’s breathing rapid and shallow within the hood, his pulse double-beat, wondering whether next to expect a bullet or his hopes confirmed that it was just a game.

There was a bang then, but it was too distant for a gunshot: a door swinging open and banging back in one of the adjacent rooms, then a frantic rustling as someone ran through the debris and prone bodies, and a breathless, urgent voice:

‘Someone out fron’…. Come on der’ tail!’

‘Yo’ brought someone here, Mack!’ Rillet screamed.

‘No… no! We’re alone. Din’ bring nobody,’ Mack quavered, struggling for conviction.

‘You fuckin’ brought someone here! Snoopin’. An’ that somethin’ I definitely ain’t got no movemen’ on…’

And as quickly as Jac felt hope enter his grasp, it was slipping away again.

As Nel-M saw them turn into Tricou Street, he thought twice about following them. He didn’t want to end up getting car-jacked or his nice paintwork spray-painted or shot at by some punks.

A car just didn’t look right on the north part of Tricou unless it was rusted, graffiti’d, standing on bricks and stripped, or pumped with bullet holes.

Two bars visited, questions on the street, then the Red Rooster cafe; now heading out with some black guy who looked like a retired basketball coach.

Nel-M knew that the Ninth was Larry Durrant’s old stomping ground, but then the same held true for seventy per cent of New Orleans’ black criminals. Nel-M was trying to get to the point where he knew what McElroy was pursuing in the Ninth: something to do with Durrant, or a new client?

When he saw them enter the warren of dilapidated crack houses ahead, he thought that he had his answer: new client. But then from what he’d heard, the guy operating on Tricou, Lenny Rillet, was meant to be a heavy hitter. And McElroy was way down the feeding chain at his firm, didn’t normally get that calibre of client. Anything more complex than a straightforward plea petition, and he wouldn’t have been let within a mile of the Durrant case.

Nel-M decided to keep watching, see what might transpire or where McElroy might head next that would make all the pieces finally slot into place.

Nel-M saw the fifteen-year-old clocker come out and give the street a quick up and down once-over; but, sixty yards down on the opposite side, it didn’t seem he’d taken much notice of Nel-M’s presence.

The clocker, though, at the same time as heading in to alert Rillet, also signalled his buddy towards the back of the shotgun houses.

A routine they’d played out several times before, the second clocker headed along the back yards of the neighbouring houses, and slipped out again onto the road forty yards behind Nel-M’s car.

Nel-M didn’t see him at first. He only picked up a shadowy flicker of movement when the clocker had already scampered twenty yards closer; and, as Nel-M focused intently on his rear-view mirror to be sure of what he thought he’d seen, there was movement too from ahead with the first clocker starting to head his way.

‘Ohh… Shiiiiii….’ Nel-M hit his ignition, slammed into drive, and swung out, flooring it.

A shot came from behind, thudding into metal somewhere on his trunk, and now the clocker ahead was moving into aiming stance.

An ignoble epitaph that would be: killed by two clockers barely in puberty. Nel-M headed straight for the clocker ahead, ducking down at the same time. He heard the shot zing past, saw the kid start squaring for a second shot — but Nel-M was bearing down fast, less than ten yards away. The kid hesitated for an instant, then, realizing that Nel-M’s car would hit him halfway through firing, he leapt out of the way as Nel-M flashed past.

Nel-M kept low, heard two more shots: one missed, but the other hit his back window, shattering it into a thousand ice-pellets.

Breath held, Nel-M did a quick self-check for injuries: pain, blood, flesh or clothing fragments where they shouldn’t be? Nothing. He eased out again and swung off hard at the next cross street.

Nel-M was already fifty yards past the crack house as Rillet came out with Mack Elliott and Jac. They had their hoods yanked off, which Jac could now see were white pillow cases. Rillet stood behind them, looking clownish and ridiculous — though nobody would dare tell him that — in a George Bush mask. Dubbya meets the Ku-Klux Klan in front of a crack house.

‘Yo’ know that car o’ that man?’ Rillet asked.

Mack answered first. ‘No. Never seen him befo’. An’ don’ know the car.’

‘Me neither,’ Jac echoed. ‘Don’t recognize the car or the man.’ Even at first sight, the man inside had been little more than an indistinct shadow. Now he was a good seventy yards away.

Silence again, the George Bush mask giving nothing away. No sign of whether Rillet accepted their claims or not.

But watching the fading brake lights of the Pontiac Bonneville as it turned off of Tricou Street, Jac was suddenly struck with an idea. If he lived to implement it.