“What you need?”
Dupree reached into the same inside pocket where he’d carried the banknote and took out a list written in pencil. He gave it to Meire, who bent over to examine it. Two seconds later, he looked up to study Dupree’s face. “This ain’t for you.”
“It’s not. It’s for Nana.”
“Nana,” Meire murmured and turned toward the room. “Jacques!” He raised his voice and waved the list at the man working in the back. “I hope you haven’t finished packing up le petit enfant! Mr. Cleveland here has an order. He’s going to need some.”
12
WINDOWS
New Orleans, Louisiana
Johnson gave Charbou the keys to the huge black SUV they’d parked in front of the District 8 station. The New Orleans cop gave a whistle of appreciation when he saw the FBI vehicle.
Bill and Bull had taken the front seats without giving them a choice, so Johnson and Amaia buckled themselves into the back. “Is the hotel far from here?”
“Five minutes by car, ten or twelve by foot,” Bull answered.
The AC was on full blast against the oppressive heat of the city. Amaia put her forehead against the cool window and watched the passing scenery. Colorfully painted, well-kept houses stood cheek by jowl with decrepit shotgun shacks. On some homes, new-cut pine boards that had been hammered across the windows clashed with the colors of the brilliantly painted walls. There were no cars parked along the street. And they hadn’t seen a soul, except in the immediate vicinity of the station. Looking up, Amaia glimpsed the eyes of a woman at a second-story window; she was holding a lace curtain to shield her lower face as she spied on the street below. Amaia was reminded of Calle Santiago in Elizondo and the thousands of times she’d seen women posed in windows in just that way.
“Looks like the evacuation was a success.” Johnson’s comment brought her out of her musings.
Keeping his hands on the wheel as they advanced, Charbou turned toward Johnson and seemed about to say something. He held back but kept his eyes on Johnson for so long that Amaia thought it was inevitable he would crash the car. He turned his attention back to the road without comment.
Jason Bull spoke instead. “Let’s just say that District 8 is about the sweetest little spot in New Orleans. Close to the tourist area, not too far from Frenchmen Street. Maybe not very elegant, but good enough to give tourists the illusion they’re in the real, authentic New Orleans. It’s all a con job. We know you got important stuff waiting, but we can’t take you out into the streets tomorrow if you go to bed tonight thinking you know the real New Orleans. You can’t track down a killer if you don’t know where you are, and for that, you need to see more before it gets dark today. For Christ’s sake, they’ve stuck you in rooms in the stinking French Quarter!”
Johnson checked his watch and Amaia thought he’d say they didn’t have time. He’d promised Dupree they’d review those cases and have them ready on his return. Everything Amaia had noticed about Johnson confirmed the man was orderly and methodical; disregarding Dupree’s instructions, even for just a few minutes, was something he’d probably consider irregular and exceptionally indulgent. But he looked at her for any objection, then nodded to accept the offer.
They got to the end of Simon Bolivar Avenue, which gave them scenes very different from those in District 8. Charbou slowed to a crawl, for many more people were in the streets. Most of the houses were drab or ramshackle, and few showed signs that any effort had been made to protect them against the hurricane. Precautions against the storm seemed limited to hauling the porch furniture inside. Instead of bright pine boards, people in the quarter had used all sorts of materials to protect their windows—plastic sheeting, colored tarps, even dirty lengths of scrap lumber. The empty lots between the houses were piled with garbage. Doors of abandoned automobile carcasses yawned open, and stuffing spilled out from the slashed seats like the guts of roadkill.
Bull turned to Johnson and Amaia. “I have a wife and two little babies; they’re in Atlanta with my in-laws, who are delighted to remind my wife that life in New Orleans is a shitty pain in the ass. My mother’s with them too. I got my whole family out.”
“I didn’t,” Bill Charbou said. “I’ve only got an aunt, my mom’s little sister. She decided not to go. She’s kind of an activist in her neighborhood, and she’s still in her house over in the Ninth Ward. Nobody’s going to make her leave. Y’all have to understand there’s lots of folks like her, people who aren’t leaving even though they could. And then there’s others like those who live here. This is their home, the street, and they got nothing else. They’ve lived in misery all their lives, and this isn’t going to be any different. They’re not going somewhere else; they’re staying right here. Believe me, they’re ready to protect their homes and families with their own lives, even from somebody claiming he wants to help.”
“But there’s a hell of a storm coming,” Johnson objected. “I don’t think they understand the danger. They could get killed.”
“Yeah, yeah, they could get killed,” Bill agreed. “They don’t care. Johnson, with all due respect, you’re an outsider, you drive down the street, and you see their shitty little world and ask yourself, ‘Why do they want to risk it?’ You don’t realize that maybe this is a pile of shit, but it’s theirs, it’s all they’ve managed to make for themselves. I learned a long time ago that every arrogant SOB who visits NOLA looks down on these kids.”
Provoked, Johnson took a deep breath, but Amaia got in before him in an attempt to calm things down. “And how about you, Mr. Charbou? Are you married?”
The policeman guffawed. “‘Mr. Charbou’? Don’t call me that ever again. Bill or Charbou, but forget your ‘Mr. Charbou’!”
When it became obvious Charbou wasn’t going to answer the question, Bull spoke up. “Bill Charbou doesn’t have any other family here. His parents, brothers, and sisters live in Baton Rouge. Nobody’s left for him here ’cept his old auntie. He’s got half a dozen girlfriends, but not one of them likes him well enough to wait out the hurricane with him.” He pretended to be pained when his partner punched his shoulder. “Ouch! Guess by now they’re all holed up somewhere safe with some other gentleman friend.”
“Augh!” Bill Charbou moaned and shook his head, pretending to be offended. His partner laughed.
They turned back toward Simon Bolivar, crossed Marigny and Esplanade, then took Dauphine.
Dauphine Orleans Hotel had an orange façade facing the street of the same name. Bottle-green shutters on the balconies contrasted with the ground floor’s white arches. Bill stopped their 4x4 in front of an open archway beside the main entrance and pointed. Despite the evacuation order, the parking lot in the hotel’s inner court was full. They went in and found three large black women busy behind the reception desk. The proprietors quickly checked the visitors in and invited Bill and Bull to take a seat in the little bar next to reception. One of them came out to show Amaia to her room. Bill, who’d insisted on carrying Amaia’s knapsack for her, escorted them to the elevator but was reluctant to give up her bag. The hotel owner grabbed it out of his hands, brooking no nonsense, but gave him a sweet smile when she told him to wait in the bar.