Robert Crais - Voodoo River

As my muscles warmed, the tension began to loosen and fall away like ice calving from a glacier and falling into the sea.

The kid said, "They say we're one of the top ten most dangerous cities in the country." He seemed proud of it.

I said, "We'll be careful."

Pike said, "Let's get going before I hit this twerp."

We ran south along the street that paralleled the levee, then up the little rise past the old state capitol building and then east, away from the river. The night air was warm, and the humidity let the sweat come easily. I concentrated on my breath and the rhythms of the run and the commitment needed to match Pike's pace. The run became consuming in its effort, and the focus needed to endure it was liberating. The downtown business area quickly gave way to a mix of businesses and small, single-family homes. Black. We ran along a major thoroughfare and the traffic was heavy, so we stayed on a narrow sidewalk as much as possible. The blocks were short and the cross-streets were numbered, and each time we crossed one you could get a glimpse of the lives in the little neighborhoods. We passed African-American kids on skateboards and bicycles, and other African-American kids playing pepper in the streets or tackle football on empty lots. They stopped as we passed and watched us without comment, two pale men trekking swiftly along the edge of their world, and I wondered if these were the areas the desk clerk had been talking about. As we ran, Pike said, "You did your best for her."

I took steady breaths. "I know."

"But you're not happy with yourself."

"I let her down. In a way, I've abandoned her." I thought about it. "It's not the first time she's been abandoned."

A lone running black man turned onto the street across from us and matched our pace. He was about our age, with a receding hairline and ebony skin and the slight, lean torso of a serious runner. Like us, he was shirtless, clothed only in shorts and running shoes, his chest and back slicked with sweat and shining the way highly polished obsidian might shine. I glanced over at him, but he ran eyes forward, as if we were not opposite him, and pretty soon I found that my eyes were forward, too, though I could see him in the periphery. I said, "She hired me to do one thing, and now I'm doing another. She hired me with every expectation that I would protect her interests, but now I'm taking this in a direction in which her interests are secondary."

We ran past a high school and shopping centers, Pike and me on our side of the street and the black runner on his, our strides matching. Pike said nothing for several minutes, and I found comfort in the loud silence. The sounds of our breathing. Our shoes striking the pavement. A metronome rhythm. Pike said, "You didn't fail her. You gave her an opportunity for love."

I glanced over at him.

"You can't put something into her heart that isn't there, Elvis. Love is not so plentiful that any of us can afford to reject it when it's offered. That's her failing. Not yours."

"It's not easy for her, Joe. For a lot of very good reasons."

"Maybe."

The black runner picked up his pace and moved ahead of us. Pike and I glanced at him in the same moment, and we picked up our pace, too. We caught him, matched him, and then we pulled ahead. Our lead lasted for a few hundred meters before he once again came abreast of us. I pushed harder, Pike pushing as one with me, and the runner across from us pushed harder still. My breath was coming in great, quick gasps, the oxygen-rich Louisiana air somehow energizing, the sweat dripping out of my hair and into my eyes, and we ran ever harder, sprinting now, we on our side of the street, he on his, and then we came to a busy intersection and slowed for the light and I turned to the other runner, smiling and intending to wave, but the black runner was gone. He had turned away from us with the cross-street, I guess, and I tried to find him but he was no longer there. We jogged in place, waiting for the light, and I found myself wishing I had called to him earlier. Now, of course, it was too late.

The light changed. Pike and I pushed on, and the miles crept behind us and the night grew late. We came to a park of soccer fields and softball diamonds, and we turned north, running along the western edge of the fields, and then west again, heading back to the river and the hotel. We had been running for almost an hour. We would run an hour still. Pike said, "Are you still thinking about her?"

"Yes."

"Then think about this. You've taken her as far as is right. Wherever she's going, she has to get the rest of the way on her own. That's not only the way it is. That's the way it should be."

"Sure, Joe. Thanks."

He grunted. Philosphy-R-Us. "Now stop thinking about her and start think about Rossier. If you don't get your head out your ass, Rossier will kill you."

"You always know how to end the moment on an upbeat note, don't you?"

"That's why I get the big bucks."

Milt Rossier called at fourteen minutes after nine the next morning. First thing out of his mouth was, "I'll go along for twenty-five hunnerd a head."

"Forget it."

"Twenty-two five, then, goddammit, or I'll just leave things the way they are."

I hung up on him. If I had a strong hand, I'd play it. If I didn't, he'd know I was shooting blanks.

Six minutes later the phone again rang and he said, "Twenty-one hunnerd, you sonofabitch. You know goddamn well there's some give. Be reasonable."

I thought my heart was going to come through my nose. "There's more, Milt, but I'm taking it. It's a one-shot, then I'm back home and out of it. After that, if you can screwdriver Escobar out of the extra cash, go for it."

Milt Rossier said, "You sonofabitch," but now he was laughing. One slimebag to another. Just a couple of good ol' boys ripping off each other. "Prima's bringing a load up tonight. That too soon for you boys?"

"Nope. What time?"

"The boat comes in around ten. Prima meets my boy LeRoy at a place called the Bayou Lounge. You know it?"

"Not tonight, Milt. Have Prima meet us at the boat. Escobar and I will meet you at your place at eight. Escobar wants to go in early." If I could get Escobar. If he'd go for it.

Milt said, "Escobar gonna bring the money?"

"Sure."

"Well, good."

I said, "You didn't tip Donaldo, did you, Milt?"

"Hell, no."

"Frank wants him, Milt. That's the deal."

"I said I didn't, goddamn it. If Frank wants to be in business with me he can have Prima's ass in a goddamned croaker sack. I'll gut him and skin him, he wants."

"Good enough. He's looking forward to meeting you, Milt. He's thinking he can run in three loads a week."

Milt Rossier said, "Holy jumpin' Jesus." There were probably dollar signs in his eyes.

"Happy days, Milt."

He said, "One thing, podnuh."

"What's that?"

"You be at the Bayou waitin'. You ain't there, I'll back away from this thing like a mud bug divin' down his hole." Ah, that southern color.

"Wouldn't miss it, podnuh." Now I was doing it.

"Ol' Frank don't show, you gonna wish you had. Milt Rossier don't take shit from any man on this God's earth. You hear where I'm coming from?"

"Loud and clear, Milt."

I hung up and called Frank Escobar. I said, "Donaldo Prima is bringing in a boat of people tonight at ten P.M. Rossier says you can have him. Are you in?"

Escobar said, "Yes."

"He wants to meet at ay place called the Bayou Lounge. We'll meet him there, then go to the boat. You have to have the money."

"Don't worry about it."

I hung up and called Jo-el Boudreaux at his home. He answered on the second ring, and his voice was shaky. He said, "Did they go for it?"

"We're on for tonight. Can you get your people together?"