It was a well-documented fact, attested to by all the highest authorities among gourmets, gourmands, trenchermen, foodies, and just plain greedy-guts, that the only way to get a really bad meal in New Orleans was to search for it with all the fervor of a knight of old upon a holy quest.
But who would want to be fool enough to do that? Certainly not Dov Godz. He had a fondness for all of the best things in life, which included food. New Orleans would always have a special place in his heart, but his stomach infallibly came along for the ride. It was a pleasure undimmed by repetition to visit that storied city at the mouth of the Mississippi on a whim, but when he had the opportunity to justify his self-indulgence by coming to New Orleans on business— Ah, that was a thrill divine.
Now, ensconced behind a plate of sugary beignets, his third cup of chicory coffee readily to hand, Dov sat under the awnings at the famous Café du Monde and reviewed his game plan. He'd arrived the previous evening and enjoyed a sumptuous dinner, but apart from that, he hadn't accomplished a thing. There was something about New Orleans that told a body not to fret or fluster, because there was time for everything, and everything in its own good time.
First thing I have to do is go back to the hotel and change my clothes, he thought, casting a rueful glance at the front of his formerly dapper suit. He had forgotten the first rule of dining in New Orleans, namely: Never eat beignets while wearing black. Those small, pillowy, feather-light, unbelievably delicious squares of fried dough were traditionally served buried beneath avalanches of powdered sugar. During the height of the tourist season, a sweet, white fog hovered immobile over the open-air tables at Café du Monde. It was said that the emergency rooms and walk-in clinics of the Queen City were frequently jammed by periodic influxes of out-of-towners who had unwisely attempted to eat beignets and talk at the same time, almost choking to death in the process.
Rule Two: If you're going to eat beignets, don't inhale.
Dov sipped his coffee and signaled the waiter for his check. When it arrived, he put down a stack of crisp tenners, slapped on his most charming smile, and said, "I beg your pardon, but do you think you could help me out with a small matter of—?"
The waiter gave him the gimlet eye. "Look, friend, I don't know what you've been told about N'Awlins, but even if it were Mardi Gras, which it's not, I wouldn't—"
"Oh, no! Nononononono," Dov said hastily, blushing to the eyebrows. "All I want is a little help finding someone. An old friend of mine. You see, he lives in the French Quarter, and he doesn't—"
"—have a telephone?" the waiter finished the thought for him. "What about an address? Do you have that much?" Dov shook his head. "Not very friendly for an 'old friend,' then, is he?"
Dov's smile wobbled just a bit. "I misspoke. He's a business acquaintance."
"Ah. I see." The waiter eyed the stack of bills wistfully. "I'd love to help you, sir, really I would, but you don't know how it is down here. When a man lives in the Quarter and doesn't have a phone and a stranger comes nosing around, asking about him, it's a sure thing that ain't no one going to be giving that stranger any information. You might accidentally tread on a man's toes, doing that. Folks don't appreciate having their toes trod on. Now you say this man's a . . . business acquaintance?"
Dov nodded and said, "I suppose you want to know what sort of business."
"Oh no, sir, no, not at all." The waiter raised one hand, fending off any unwanted information. "Matter of fact, I'm happier not knowing."
"Why? Afraid I'll lie to you for my own nefarious purposes?" Dov kicked his boyish smile up a notch. "I'm flattered."
"I'm not afraid of nothing like that; I just kinda expect it as a matter of course." The waiter had a pretty high-intensity grin of his own. He placed two fingers on the stack of bills and gave them a short push back in Dov's direction. "A word of advice, friend, and it's free: If you're bound and determined to find a man in the Quarter and you don't have a clue about where to start, wait until dark. Then go there, be there, look around. You'll find him if you're meant to. Otherwise, be smart: Go home."
"You're kidding. You want me to blunder through the French Quarter all night long, trying to find one man?" Dov peeled two bills off the top of the stack and shoved them onto the waiter. "Think again."
The waiter took a step back, away from Dov and his persistent attempts at bribery. His upper lip curled. "You want to know what I think, sir?" His hand swooped in and scooped up the pile of tens still on the tabletop. "I think a man like you will only find what he's looking for in St. Louis 1, that's what." He turned on his heel and was gone.
"St. Louis 1? What the hell does that mean?" Dov cursed the waiter under his breath, but his snit was interrupted by the sound of muffled laughter coming from inside his shirt. He grabbed the silver chain around his neck and fished Ammi out into the sunlight. The little amulet was giggling.
"Oh, he told you, all right!" Ammi said. "You big idiot."
"What did he tell me, if you're so smart?" Dov countered. He had no fear that his fellow breakfasters would think him insane for talking to jewelry: He'd wrapped Ammi in an A.R.S. even before getting into the car that took them to the Miami airport. Any person within range of their conversations would unconsciously come up with self-convincing reasons to account for everything seen and overheard. Thus, instead of the panicky realization That lunatic is talking to his necklace. And it's talking back! the innocent bystander would instead calmly reflect Gee, I wish I had a cell phone as small as the one that guy's got. And it's silver. Classy. Cool.
"Weren't you listening?" The amulet enjoyed taunting Dov. "He told you to go to St. Louis 1, which is the same thing as saying— Well, I'd rather not lower myself to using that kind of language, if you don't mind."
"I don't get get it. What's St. Louis 1?"
"A cemetery. Very historic, very quaint, very famous, and very likely a good place to get the snot kicked out of you during a mugging. Not the place a person sends someone he likes."
Dov glared in the direction the waiter had gone. "He sends me to get mugged and he's got the nerve to take my money. Bastard."
"Oh, please, you did everything but stuff that bankroll in his pocket! You're going to have to learn how to take 'No' for an answer, Dov."
"I don't think so. That's more my sister's style." Dov stood up from the table. He left no payment and no tip. The waiter had more than enough in the stack of tens he'd taken to cover both.
"Where are we going now?" Ammi asked.
"Back to the hotel. I need a change of clothes and a nap."
"Kind of early for that, isn't it?"
"Not for what I've got to do. I paid for information and all I got was advice, but I paid plenty and I'm going to take it!" He popped Ammi back down inside his shirt and declared: "I'll find Mr. Bones tonight, or know the reason why."
"You'd think that someone with a name like Mr. Bones would be easy to find," Ammi said as he and Dov walked around Jackson Square for the third time that night. "But noooo."
"Quit your bitching," Dov snapped. They had spent the better part of the night crisscrossing the streets of the Vieux Carré, with Dov making only the most discreet enquiries of the natives as to the whereabouts of his prey. He had not repeated his attempts at buying information, figuring that a flash of cash was more likely to buy him trouble. Still, despite a powerful combination of diplomacy, tact, and charm, his queries turned up nothing but blank stares at best, hostile looks and muttered curses at worst. "I'm the one who's been doing all the legwork. You're just along for the ride."
"And a damn bumpy one," the amulet's voice arose from the depth's of Dov's shirt. "And dark, damp, and scratchy. You know, many men have discovered that they feel a lot more liberated when they shave their chests."
"I am not going to shave my chest to accommodate you."
"You don't love me any more!" Ammi whined.
"What are you, nuts? I never loved you to start with! You're not a person, you're not a dog, you're not even a pet gecko: You're freakin' jewelry! What's there to love?"
"Isn't that just like a man? The sort who kisses World Series tickets and pledges his heart to a DVD player, but can't for the life of him see how someone could love a beautiful piece of art like me."
"Oh, shut up," Dov told the amulet. "You're not convincing anyone."
"And you're not finding anyone," Ammi countered. "I'll bet your sister's made three business calls by now! In fact, I'll bet that she gets here and finds this Mr. Bones bozo before you ever—"
A gaunt, dark hand seemed to thrust itself out of thin air and thudded against Dov's chest with the force of a crossbow bolt, smothering the amulet's words.
"Little silver one, I would not be calling me a bozo. It is not polite, hein? Also it is not prudent."
Dov found himself gazing into the aged, ebony face of one of the most extraordinary individuals he had ever seen. "Mr. Bones, I presume?" he inquired. There was no need to waste the question: How did you know it was the amulet talking? Mr. Bones' various "talents" were a matter of record in the E. Godz, Inc. databanks.
"At your service, sir." The tall, skeletal gentleman doffed his shiny black top hat and made a bow that an eighteenth century dancing master might envy, capping it with a flourish of the brightly painted wooden staff he carried. This courtly gesture set the staff's eclectic collection of bird and animal bones rattling eerily. A whole flock of feathers, tethered to the staff's head by satin ribbons, fluttered on the night air.
"You know, you're not an easy man to find," Dov said with a boyish grin.
"I don't intend to be." Mr. Bones returned the smile with interest. His teeth were a dazzling white, almost as brilliant as his impeccably starched and ironed shirt. He was clad like a clownish version of a bridegroom from another time: purple morning coat, pinstriped pants in black and red, shiny yellow spats over pointy-toed shoes of bottle-green patent leather. "As I reckon it, mon vieux, the only ones who find me are the ones by whom I wish to be found. Not a bad way to live, eh?"
"You could persuade me to join you," Dov replied. "But then, who'd there be to look after your best interests? Your financial interests, that is."
Mr. Bones shrugged and scraped his feet along the sidewalk in a halfhearted shuffle-shuffle-tap-kick. "Oh, friend, I am a silly, simple old man. My needs are few. I wander the streets of the Vieux Carré and greet the visitors to our fair city. For some reason, they find me a most interesting individual, and offer me money if I will pose with them for photographs. Thus I manage to scrape together a few coins, more than enough to keep body and soul together. Not that there is much body here to feed." He gestured modestly at his own gangly, scrawny frame.
Dov's mouth turned up at one corner. What a performance! he thought. His admiration was sincere. The old fellow's a showman from the get-go. I like him. Here's hoping he likes me. It's always easier to close a deal when you can make them like you. But that's something Mr. Bones knows too.
"Come now, Mr. Bones, sir," he said. "You know you're not fooling me with such talk. I'm Edwina Godz's son, remember?"
"Ah, yes, the fair Edwina!" Mr. Bones kissed the tips of his fingers in tribute to the absent lady's charms. Then he removed his top hat and bowed his head. "My dear boy, I cannot tell you how devastated I was to hear the news about her. I was desolé, completment desolé! I summoned the people to the dancing ground to see if perhaps we could not raise a cure for her, but the signs were all against it, the loa sounded quite . . . cross over having been bothered with such a thing. For my life, I could not tell why. Perhaps we did not make them a rich enough sacrifice—"
"Well, that's how it goes in this country," Ammi piped up. "One loa for the rich and another for the poor."
This time it was Dov who smothered him.
Mr. Bones leaned towards him and in a confidential tone of voice said: "You know, mon vieux, we are near enough to the river. If it would be your pleasure to drop that creature in?"
Dov chuckled. "No, thanks. He's got his uses."
"Ah. Suit yourself, then." The old man donned his top hat at a rakish angle and set off up St. Ann Street with Dov trailing after.
They went a few blocks and turned onto Bourbon Street. Walking with Mr. Bones down the most famous thoroughfare in the French Quarter was like being in your own miniature Mardi Gras parade. The old man didn't so much walk as strut down the street, his every move a loud, proud Here I am! Admire what you see and can never be! Dov took in the reactions of the passers-by with the eye of a diligent scholar. There was much about the old man that would bear imitating. He found himself walking more proudly, giving every step he took a subtle dramatic undertone. The lovely women of the French Quarter saw him and appreciated what they saw. He returned their alluring looks with his own unspoken Perhaps later, my dears. He had always been charismatic with the ladies, but as soon as he aped Mr. Bones' style he realized that he hadn't taken it far enough.
"Not bad, hein?" his venerable guide murmured. "You have the spark, the warmth that can never be taught, the charm that goes beyond any magic. And I see that you are not afraid to use it. This is good. Most boys fear their power while hungering to use it, and so they starve for love."
"Who are you calling a boy?" Dov replied, half-joking.
"To me, all men are boys," Mr. Bones said solemnly. "It happens when a body turns one hundred and twenty-three."
"Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for a day over one hundred and five." Two grins flashed across the darkness and Mr. Bones laughed.
"Petit, we will get along fine, you and I," he said. By this time they had left Bourbon for one of its many side streets. Mr. Bones stopped outside a building that looked as old as the city itself, a little worn, a little shabby, but comfortable, like a respectable old maiden aunt who had enjoyed more than a few exciting indiscretions in her girlhood. A wooden sign on a wrought iron frame swung back and forth over the battered blue door proclaiming that this was Aux Roi Gris-Gris: Voodoo Supplies, Tarot Readings, Cold Drinks and Postcards.
The woman behind the counter was young, plump and beautiful, clad in a low-cut yellow blouse, a flounced skirt, and a tignon headwrap, the whole ensemble clearly worn to fulfill tourist expectations, the better to attract tourist dollars. She looked up from a tarot layout with a practiced saleswoman's smile on her face until she saw who it was had just come into the shop. At once her smile became heartfelt and, with a happy cry of recognition, she flew into Mr. Bones' arms, hugging him to her ample bosom so hard that Dov thought there was a good chance she'd break him in two.
There were worse ways to die.
"Please, Aurore, a little restraint, if you please. We have a guest." Mr. Bones tipped his hat in Dov's direction.
Dov stepped forward and raised the woman's hand to his lips. When in Rome . . . he thought. But this looks like much more fun than Rome! The lovely Aurore gave him a devastating smile in payment for his gallantry and Mr. Bones observed everything with a contented look.
"My dear, Mr. Godz and I will have brandy and coffee in my office," the old man said as he led the way around the counter into the rooms behind the store. As Dov followed, he took in the stock of Aux Roi Gris-Gris. As advertised there were plenty of postcards and a cooler full of cold drinks. There were also piles and piles of mass produced bric-a-brac for the tourist trade: overpriced feathered masks, plastic krewe doubloons from Mardi Gras past, rubber crawfish keyrings, suitably primitive-looking voodoo dolls that came with pins included.
"See anything you like?" Mr. Bones teased, glancing back over one shoulder.
Dov picked up one of the so-called voodoo dolls. Its body was made of sticks swathed in a couple of scraps of brightly colored cloth and its skull-like head was molded on white clay with the features daubed on in black ink.
"Now, Barbie, what did I tell you?" Dov addressed the doll. "Anorexia is not a laughing matter."
"The real ones are not sold here," Mr. Bones said. "They are made to order."
"I expected no less." Dov pulled Ammi out of his shirt and draped the amulet's chain around the fake voodoo doll's neck. "What do you think would happen if I stuck a pin into this thing now?" he asked lightly. He reached for one and was about to test his hypothesis when Mr. Bones' hand fell over his in a surprisingly strong grip.
"You may laugh freely, but laughter and mockery are two different things." There was a dangerous look in his eyes, a look that conjured up graveyard midnights and forces that were old when the world was young.
Dov set the doll down carefully and reclaimed his amulet. "I didn't mean any disrespect. Not to anything but him, that is." He tapped Ammi's silver face.
"Hey! Watch it, you big boob," Ammi protested. "You've got thumbs fatter than a Bronx butcher's!"
"I believe you," said Mr. Bones. "And belief is everything." He took Dov into a small, snug room in back of the store, a place decked out with fine antique furnishings, most of them heavy, ornate pieces reflecting the on-and-off influence of forty-odd years of Spanish occupation. As Dov settled into the purple velvet seat of a high-backed oak chair, Aurore came gliding in with a tray bearing a demitasse service, a crystal brandy decanter, and two big-bellied snifters.
Mr. Bones did the honors, keeping his staff cradled in the crook of one elbow even while he poured brandy and coffee. Seeing Dov's curious look, he said, "There are many hands that would be eager to lay hold of my little beauty here." He gave the staff an awkward jiggle, making the bones click together. "The price of power is high—vigilance, courage, calculation, insight—but I find the rewards outweigh the inconveniences."
"I couldn't agree with you more." Dov accepted a demitasse and sipped the hot, strong brew. "That's why I've come here, to speak with you about—"
"I know." Mr. Bones saw no rudeness in interrupting his guest. "It is the dearest wish of my heart that your mother may yet surprise us all and make a full recovery. However, if she must instead go off with my good friend the Baron, I think she would do so less reluctantly if she knew that all her good works were being continued, and that the transition of power was to be accomplished as smoothly as possible."
"The Baron?" Dov asked.
"Baron Samedi." Mr. Bones pointed at a painting that hung on one wall of his backroom retreat. It was oil on a large slab of cedarwood, and it showed a gentleman who very much resembled Mr. Bones, except for the fact that his face was painted so that he looked even closer kin to an animate skeleton. "He is . . . a friend of mine, a personage of great honor who takes a kindly interest in those whose lives have reached their close."
Dov studied the painting and mulled over Mr. Bones' rather evasive words. Probably one of his deities, he thought. I should know this. Well, I can learn. Yes, and I will learn everything I must, once I'm head of the company!
"I would like to hope," he said slowly, "that perhaps some day I may count on the Baron as a friend of mine as well."
Mr. Bones was visibly pleased by Dov's reply. "My friend, you commend yourself to me more with every word from your mouth. You show us respect, even though you have not got a baby's comprehension of what it is we do or how we worship. I would be honored to bring you to the temple where I serve as priest and my dear Aurore as priestess, but I fear your time with us is short. Is this not so?"
Dov bowed his head. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Bones. I deeply regret—"
"We've got to catch a plane to Arizona tomorrow," Ammi horned in. "We'd've had a lot more time to visit with you, maybe visit that temple of yours, if only you'd been a little easier to find in the first place. It's all very spoooky, you drifting through the French Quarter, no one knows where to find you, come and go like the wind, like a shadow, blah, blah, blah, but come on, Bones! Is that really any good for business?"
"That does it." Dov pulled the amulet from his neck so sharply that he snapped the chain. "You're going in the Mississippi. Now. That or down the toilet. Mr. Bones, where's the bathroom?"
The old man leaned forward and laid one hand on Dov's arm. "Let the creature be. Only the weak fear those who censure them. Only the truly poor cannot afford to laugh at themselves. I am neither weak nor poor. This garish shop is not my only source of income any more than the few pitiful coins I gather by posing for photographs with the tourists. My true power, in many senses, lies elsewhere."
Dov nodded. "The temple. Your followers. You also run a second shop, a botánica. Very thoughtful of you to provide your followers with a handy place to shop for all their voodoo needs. And not just your followers: This city shelters many different practitioners of the old ways, and you can't buy skulls or images of the gods or those kind of herbs at Winn-Dixie. I've done my research, Mr. Bones."
"So have I, Mr. Godz." The old man clapped his hands, summoning the beauteous Aurore. This time she had put off her gaudy tourist-trapping clothes and the tignon, wearing instead a smartly cut designer ensemble, her hair secured by elegant silver clips that whispered: Tiffany's, of course. She was carrying a leather portfolio stuffed to the bursting point with papers.
She smiled when she saw how Dov was staring at her. "You preferred me as I was?" she asked lightly.
"No, ma'am," he said, recovering himself. "Your other outfit was just fine for bringing down the pigeons, but I can see you prefer to stalk big game. I suppose those are the latest financial reports on the corporation?"
She nodded and she laid the portfolio in Mr. Bones' lap. The old man opened it to a random spot and ran one finger down the outer margin. "Compiled by a reliable and trustworthy research firm."
"Is that so." Dov bristled inwardly. "Do you think it's quite wise to have outsiders investigating E. Godz, Inc.? All it takes is one moron on their staff whose idea of a good time is an old-fashioned book burning and we won't be talking small can of worms; we'll be up to our eyeballs in nightcrawlers."
"A fate that will be ours soon enough, when our time comes," Mr. Bones replied. "But I agree: Why rush it? Rest easy, Mr. Godz. This research firm harbors only those who wish us well, and even though the payment for their services is . . . unconventional, I have the resources to meet it." He closed the folder and Dov caught sight of the image of Baron Samedi impressed on the cover in gold. "Now, let us discuss the reasons behind the corporate portfolio's continuing refusal to invest in the futures market."
"Say what?" said Ammi.
"Shut up, wart," Dov muttered. He rested his hands on his knees and leaned forward eagerly. "I'm glad you asked that question, Mr. Bones. After all, it's your group's future that's at stake. And I don't mean pork bellies! I've been following Mother's investment strategies for years, even if she doesn't know it, and the way I see things going is—"
Two hours later a sleek black Bentley pulled up to the blue door of Aux Roi Gris-Gris and a uniformed driver stood by at attention while Dov got in. He sank back against the sumptuously soft leather interior and closed his eyes. "Next stop, Arizona," he murmured.
"Without your underwear?" Ammi demanded. "This is not the way to the hotel!"
"No, it's the way to the airport. Mr. Bones took care of getting my things packed and loaded into the trunk. He's got his ways."
"He's also got a killer instinct for finance."
"Yes, well, so do I. I'm glad he saw that. I think it's what clinched the deal. One of the most influential members of the E. Godz, Inc. corporate family and I've got his support in my pocket. Yesss!" He punched the air in triumph before settling back down into the seat again and drifting off into wonderful dreams. They all featured himself tossing his sister Peez out into the cold, cruel world and a script consisting entirely of the words Neener, neener, neener.
Teddy Tumtum would have appreciated it.