The Gone Dead Train (29 page)

Dominique's head-to-toe appraisal reminded Frankie that she didn't look anything like an angelfish. She shopped at Target, not Bergdorf Goodman.

“My family owns a nursery,” she said. “Mr. Garrett wants our help with the roof garden.” She inclined her head toward the statues on the shelf. “I see you honor the orishas. Are you a believer?”

Dominique gave her a sidelong glance. “You know Santería?”

“Enough to place
ebbos
in my home for good luck, but not enough to solve my problem,” she said in a plaintive tone.

Dominique selected a boning knife and ran the thin blade down the chicken's backbone. Frankie recognized the high-end Japanese chef's knife, far more expensive than she could afford.

“Strong money got no problems in America,” Dominique said. “You an angelfish, you got strong money. I'm busy now, forty chickens to break down for bossman's bashy party tomorrow.” She cocked her head toward the door.

The conversation was over unless Frankie could hook her interest. In the Jamaican culture, family matters most. She put on a downcast face. “You talk strong money, but money won't stop the man who wants to steal my family's land.”

Dominique's gaze darted up. “This man takes your gardens?”

“A judge will give him our land next week unless I stop him.”

The knife hovered over the chicken. Dominique's eyes cut at Frankie. “A
mayombero
will make
guzum
curse for you. You know Santería, you know this is true.”

“Are you talking about Dr. Ramos?”

“Nah. Ramos is no
obeah
man, no voodoo. I know
mayombero
who will send this
gravalishus
man away.” Dominique tilted her head in consideration. “Or this man could die. I have seen it happen with my own eyes.”

This had to be the woman Ovia described. And from the sound of it, she'd watched Red die. “How can I find this
mayombero
?”

“She trusts no one. I will get the curse for you.”

“For how much?”

“Eight hundred dollars.” Dominique put down the knife, her sleeves riding up while she crossed her arms as if this was her final word.

Her watch was different from anything Frankie had ever seen. How had Billy described Augie's stolen watch? Green band. Vintage. Valuable.

“Eight hundred dollars. Too much for a curse.” She nodded at Dominique's arm. “Tell me about your watch.”

Realization that there was more to this deal crossed the woman's face. Her fingers brushed the watch face. “My family passed this down to me. You like it?”

“I do.”

“My grandmother leaves me watches and more things. Very rare.” Dominique let her words dangle, meant to entice.

“You're willing to part with these things?”

Male laughter came from beyond the kitchen. Two gangly young men banged open the door and swaggered over to pull aprons off a hook and tie them around their waists. A smaller dark-skinned man came in behind them. He tucked himself into a corner and began reading a book, glancing up on occasion at Dominique.

One of the other men gestured at Frankie. “Hey, Jamaica. We got us a new girlie cook?”

“Outside with deez box of potatoes. Peel and wash.” Dominique pointed at the door.

She turned to Frankie, angrily shaking her head. “I'm done over with this kitchen. My auntie has a California job for me four days from tomorrow. I will wear a chef's coat with my name sewn in red. And I take my Jamaican friend with me over there. He's always with a book.” She spoke to the little man in the corner. “Go to the cooler and bring more chickens. You and me have work to do.”

He nodded and stepped inside the walk-in cooler.

A stocky man with a mangled nose shuffled into the kitchen. “Hey, Domino. You want help with them chickens?”

She brandished the cleaver. “I'm no Domino,” she hissed.

“Shit, lady, forget it.” He slung a box of potatoes onto his shoulder and walked outside with the other men.

“You see?” she said to Frankie. “I sleep here; I work here. Bossman makes me come to his house twice a week to scrub his toilets and iron his shirts.” Her eyes flashed. “He works me like I'm his property. No respect for Dominique. But I show Mr. Bossman. I show him.”

The woman paused, running her tongue over her lips, thinking. “Yes. I have decided. We meet at the bus station. I'll bring the curse and things to sell. You bring cash. We both get away from these bad men.”

Frankie nodded. Dominique had just laid out a classic sting operation for her own takedown. “I'll see the man who wants to steal our land tomorrow. I need that curse tonight.”

“I'm in the kitchen till eight o'clock. We throw a bashy party tomorrow for TV people. You and me, we will meet at the bus station tonight at nine.”

Frankie wrote her number on a piece of paper and laid it on the counter. “You call when you're on your way.”

“Yes. Good-bye now.”

The Jamaican man returned with the chickens. Dominique's cleaver came down to severe a chicken leg, as if both their troubles had been resolved.

Frankie left the kitchen, hardly able to resist going back to clamp cuffs on Dominique. The woman's tough act would break down in the interrogation room. But if she was right and that watch was part of Augie's property, arresting Dominique now could mean the rest of the stolen items might never be found. Dominique could claim she'd bought the watch on the street. They would have no reason to hold her. Billy needed more persuasive evidence than that to get Dunsford off his back.

She found the lobby where an old man in an oversize Stetson was sitting behind the desk. He grinned at her approach.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” he said and shoved the hat brim back with his thumb.

“Wonderful place you have here. By the way, I didn't catch the name of the Jamaican chef.”

“You mean Dominique Powell?”

“That's it. Has she worked here long?”

“Couple of years. Long enough to think she runs the place.” He laughed.

“Thanks.” She slipped a ten in the donation box on her way out the door.

A
t City Market Billy picked up his tuna sandwich with a side of fried okra and a giant iced tea. He sat at a sidewalk table in the shade of a spreading oak across from a Main Street trolley stop. Four days ago he'd shared a similar table with Augie in front of the Peanut Shoppe. Only four days.

He thought about Augie's mental illness and how Lou's obsession with Rebecca Jane had brought him down. Can we sense our hidden flaws before the damage is done, or will they take us from behind? Augie deserved to round the bases and coast into home plate. Instead, his flaw stole his dignity. Someone else stole his life.

He shut down those thoughts and focused on his food. The tuna was chilled and delicious. The fried okra still sizzled with hot oil. A breeze from the river swept up the bluff, carrying the sound of carriage-horse hooves echoing down the corridor of granite buildings.

This felt like home. His shoulders dropped, and he inhabited his own skin for the first time in weeks.

The trolley crossed the intersection and rolled to a stop. Doors whooshed open. A young woman in skinny jeans and ankle boots stepped off.

He instantly recognized her honey complexion and the classic planes of her face. Theda Jones walked to his table, languorous, hypnotic, never breaking eye contact as she approached. He knew the type, comfortable with the power she held over men. Her confidence made her even more provocative.

“May I join you, Detective Able?” she said. The timbre of her voice sounded polished beyond her years.

“Of course.” He stood and angled the second chair away from the table.

She smiled and took a seat. “I'm Theda Jones. I met Augie Poston the day before the funeral for Daddy Davis and Little Man. Augie told me about you.”

“We crossed paths outside of the funeral home.”

She rested her elbows on the table, interlacing her long fingers. “When I saw you sitting here, I knew God had brought us together.”

“I don't believe you tracked me down through divine intervention, Miss Jones.”

Her smile stiffened. “Forgive my subterfuge. Augie told me about your home on the river. I was on my way there when I saw you from the trolley. But I still believe there's a touch of the divine involved. That's how I live my life.”

He didn't buy that last bit. According to the New Orleans PI, he was gazing into the eyes of a call girl and gifted con artist. He avoided the word “whore,” because Theda Jones had been pushed into the business. She had supposedly made a break from it.

“What's on your mind, Miss Jones?”

Her lips pursed. “I'm frightened, and I don't know anyone in this city who can help me.”

“Go on.”

“Last week everything changed. I found out Little Man had died. By the time I got to Memphis, Daddy Davis was gone, too. That young man at the mortuary was kind enough to introduce me to Augie. He told me you were looking into their deaths.” She paused, picking up on his skepticism. “I know. Augie said too much, but men do that. They like to tell me things.”

He remembered how bowled over Augie had been by the photo of Theda seated at the piano. It was a miracle he hadn't given her his credit card and pin number. “You said you're frightened.”

“The man at the mortuary told me they died of natural causes. I think there's more to it. Daddy Davis sent a letter and a package to me a few weeks ago. He asked me to keep them safe. He hinted there might be trouble.”

Her eyebrows rose, looking for his acceptance. A letter, a mysterious package. She must think he was an idiot.

“Is Red Davis your father?”

“He's the only man who's ever been good to me. I met Red and Little Man at a club in the Quarter where we were performing. They thought I had talent. There was some trouble, so Red arranged a scholarship at a conservatory in Boston. He bought my ticket, bought my clothes. They were like two angels flying me away.”

He wondered if she knew she was the reason they ended up homeless. “Did Red keep in touch?”

“He sent letters and some pocket money. Red always signed his name Daddy Davis. The letter and package were the last. I didn't hear from him for a couple of weeks. Then I read about Little Man. I spent every cent I had to get here.”

Theda's story ran close to the PI's report except for the part about turning tricks for Cool Willy. Couldn't blame her for leaving that out. The real discrepancy was that she claimed to be flat broke. She'd shown up at the Rock of Ages Funeral Home in a hired car and dressed like a million bucks.

She looked past him, her gaze becoming fixed. She reached into her handbag and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. “There's a man watching us,” she whispered.

Billy turned for a look. “Ah, hell,” he muttered.

J.J. eased off the wall and sauntered over, same spotless sneakers, only this time his jersey read
GOT JESUS?
with a fat question mark printed in gold. He stood outside of Billy's reach while cocking his head at Theda, giving her a big, gummy smile.

“Morning, lovely lady. May I recommend a downtown carriage ride? I'll arrange a better tour than the detective here can ever give you. No charge.”

“Beat it,” he said to J.J. “Now.”

Theda removed her glasses. “That's a nice offer, but I'm sure a gentleman like you knows when not to intrude.” She gave him a finger-wave good-bye that drew an even broader grin from J.J. but didn't send him on his way.

Billy got to his feet.

J.J. stepped back. “It's a free sidewalk, Detective. And I'm a free man, no thanks to you.” He made a show of stomping down the sidewalk as best he could while wearing sneakers.

Billy took his seat again and looked across the table at Theda, knowing she was a hustler far more skilled than J.J. At least she was beautiful to look at. “Tell me about this package.”

“It's a box about ten inches square. The letter said to keep it safe and not to open it. I've wondered if what's in the box got them killed.”

“Did you open it?”

She shook her head. “Red believed in Santería. I'm from New Orleans, so I know it could be something awful like human remains or animal entrails. I brought it with me to give back to him.”

Her gaze moved to the pot of pansies next to the station, the flowers ruffling in the breeze. He heard a mix of abandonment and sadness as she continued.

“I went to the school office to sign out for a family emergency. They asked me to remind Mr. Davis that his check for the balance of my final semester was late. That's when I learned there never had been a grant. Red has been paying my tuition all along. Thousands of dollars.”

Her hand brushed her neck. “The unpaid tuition is fifteen thousand. I hate to bring this up, it sounds so crass. The school has nominated me for an international piano competition at the end of the next session. If I win, I'll be signed by a talent management group and have a debut recital in New York plus a recording contract.”

“That's quite a prize,” he said.

“It won't happen if I get kicked out of school.”

“Maybe there's money in the box.”

“His letter implied that it's extremely important, and possibly dangerous. That doesn't sound like money.”

“It doesn't sound like a curse, either.”

“I was wondering . . .” She gave him a pleading look. “If what's inside is so valuable, a collector might be interested in buying it. Like I said, I don't know anyone here. If it turns out that the package is valuable, maybe you could help me find a buyer and keep half the proceeds.”

He settled in his chair, comfortable that he knew what was coming—you provide up-front money and we'll share in the larger profits later. “That's very generous. What would you need from me?”