ol ogue |
The Token
Prologue
A yellowed photograph on a faded piece of paper fluttered in the night wind. Fragile from age, it looked as though it couldn’t possibly stand one more blast sent its way by the approaching storm. Could a late night meeting on a ferry boat, a faded picture torn from the front of an old paperback book, and three chirps of a cell phone change two men’s lives forever? The man clutching the picture knew they could as surely as something as invisible as the wind could change the life of a city for years to come.
Ebony fingers clutching yellow paper pointed to a second and much taller man. The two faced each other, shouting to be heard over the rumbling protest of the ferry’s diesel engines being thrown into full reverse. The air was heavy with backwater spray, diesel fumes, and the vague yet distinct odor of impending doom.
The man with paper in hand, shouted, his words all but drowned out by the racket. The man he was talking to couldn’t hear all that was said but he heard enough. The tall, rail of a fellow glared down at the smaller man; his eyes betraying a contradiction of confidence and fear. “Fool, do you know who you’re messing with? Where’d you hear that anyway?”
“What does it matter? Word is, he’s back in town and I’ve been told the two of you are headed for a meeting.” The man with paper in hand looked toward the skyline of New Orleans as he spoke. Almost as though he could see whoever he was talking about in one of the barely visible buildings.
The tall man looked in the same direction and then back into the eyes of the one in front of him. “After all these years? I don’t know who told you that but the best thing you can do is get off this boat as soon as it docks and never show you’re face around me again.”
The informant shrugged and held out the folded object in his hand. “Fine with me. But he is back and the time to end this is closer than you can imagine.”
Paper exchanged hands as the ferry docked and the informant disappeared into the confusing mix of disembarking vehicles and foot passengers. And one lone figure remained staring at the now unyielding piece of paper. It was her. Ten years and she still unnerved him. Even if it was only a faded picture torn from the cover of a paperback book . Unnerved. Who was he kidding? He knew it was something far greater and deeper than that.
Lost in a jumbled world of crack, cheap liquor and nightmare memories the tall man stepped off the Algiers Point Ferry and found a back alley between French Market and the river. An unaccustomed hush had settled over the place. On any other night it would have been a bedlam of sights and sounds. But not tonight. First signs of reaction to news of the Hurricane that was stoking its engines out in the Gulf. The storm had its fist already cocked ready to score a knockout punch to a city that up to this time had managed to duck all previous challengers.
Better yet it was dark. Just the way he liked it. Unconsciously, he reach into his pocket and rubbed a lucky token he always carried with him. The tall man seldom bothered to look at the object. But, its feel between his smooth fingers mellowed his soul almost as good as a nickel bag. Fighting to regain control, he got himself together, recovered his normal swagger and turned his attention toward his plan of action.
And then those three chirps came. Private Caller. He didn’t care for private callers. Didn’t trust them. Almost never answered them. Except this time. Everything within him screamed to leave it be. Get on out of here. But something compelled him to flip open the phone.
“Yea. Who’s this?”
That racket. Where had he heard it before? Woosh …woosh. Something whirling through the air. And then it clicked. It was a sound from his childhood. Like a magic key, the sound unlocked a hidden door. Behind that door was the smell of incense and dried animal parts. It was something he thought he had buried for good. Something he was sure he had escaped. But somehow it had tracked him down and grabbed him with three chirps of his phone.
And then came that voice. “Stay away from her boy. Stay away from dat’ Jesus woman.”
How did she get his phone number? He flipped the phone shut and threw it as far as he could toward the red line trolley as it clacked by. And then he did something he hadn’t done in a very long time. He ran in fear. Unvarnished terror. He ran deep into the Elysian Fields projects. Buildings that had once housed thousands of men and women helping in the fight against a mad man in Germany. Buildings now filled with the madness of poverty, drugs, and despair.
What did that guy say? “The time to end this is closer than you can imagine.” Nauseating images of black water, a dying woman, and a husband gone totally whack sloshed around inside his already muddled brain.
He turned and looked back at the skyline of New Orleans. No. Not there. He knew exactly where it would happen. If the coming day progressed the way the guys on the Weather Channel predicted, it would be a perfect time to head there. For the tenth time the faded picture was unfolded. He addressed it as though he half expected the haunting image on the crumpled paper to answer. “What do I have to do get rid of you?”
He thought of the phone call and the ominous warning from the other end. “That witch can rot where I put her. T-Man ain’t afraid of no one. Not her. Not some dead woman. Not anything!” But the tremble in his hands and the sweat on his brow mocked his bluster. And he knew that tremble would never go away until it was ended. And on his terms.
Read Chapter One |
