A Perfect Cover. Maureen Tan
As are drugs, gambling and prostitution. Profitability also provides a ready motive for one murder. Or three. Or a dozen.
“These are violent, dangerous individuals, Lacie. Treat them with caution. With the information I have given him, even a white policeman might eventually be able to gather evidence against some of the sai lows—the foot soldiers. But to stop this gang from poisoning the Vietnamese community with their violence? To solve three murders and prevent others?”
Uncle Tinh put his coffee cup down, reached across the table and took each of my hands in one of his.
“To destroy the viper, one must have the skill and courage to cut off its head.”
And that, it seemed, was my job.
Not too much later, I left Tinh’s City Vu.
With an eye to the calories I’d just consumed, I decided to walk back to the Intercontinental. It was late afternoon, a breeze stirred the damp air and the drizzle that had plagued the city on and off for days had stopped. But, wary of more autumn showers, I borrowed one of the big, black courtesy umbrellas emblazoned with the restaurant’s logo that my uncle kept on hand for the restaurant’s regular patrons. Then I stood beneath the canopy that sheltered the entrance of Tinh’s City Vu from rain and sun and considered my route.
To my left, at the bottom of Ursulines Avenue, was the historic and very commercial French Market. Seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, merchants sold everything from Creole tomatoes by the pound to fine jewelry by the carat. From the Market, I could wander along the wooden promenades and admire the commerce along the Mississippi.
The lure of sweet pralines, thick chicory-laced coffee and a view of river traffic navigating the crescent bend usually made the Market and the Moonwalk my inevitable choices. But I’d already had my fill of sweets, was too wired to need caffeine and was in no mood to stroll along the river. So I turned right, in the direction of the Royal Pharmacy, aiming to surround myself with the carefree, frenzied energy of Bourbon Street.
It was Friday and, like Uncle Tinh’s place, the French Quarter’s bars, restaurants and strip joints were gearing up for a busy night. Tourists and locals already filled the wide sidewalks, second-floor balconies and narrow streets of the Quarter. But an hour before dark, most were more interested in food and atmosphere than in getting plastered or watching topless dancers bump and grind.
The music, which was what I sought, was already beginning to flow from the clubs. Old tunes and new washed over Bourbon Street—jazz and Dixieland, rhythm and blues, soul and funk, Cajun and zydeco. I walked for blocks and took my time, letting the crowd pass unnoticed as I lingered in open doorways, inhaling the mixed odors of food, cigarettes and booze, and listening. Just listening.
On the streets of New Orleans, tradition and impulse, beauty and corruption, good and evil, coexisted and sometimes embraced. And the city felt more like home than any place I had ever been.
A rumble of thunder announced the downpour. Tourists clapped their palms over the tops of their alcohol-filled go-cups and ran for shelter. I opened my umbrella and stepped from the wide, brick sidewalk into the narrow brick-paved street to avoid the people congregating under overhangs and in doorways.
From beneath my portable shelter, I gauged my progress. It was nearly dusk. I had already walked past the double balconies and dormer windows of the Royal Sonesta Hotel and could no longer hear the piano and its accompanying male voice coming from inside the Desire Oyster Bar. Ahead of me, glowing through the rain and reflecting off the wet street, was the iron-work-framed, black-and-white sign of the Old Absinthe House. From there, I knew, it was just two blocks to Canal Street and then three more blocks to the Intercontinental.
Half a block past the Old Absinthe House and I was alone on the street. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, which was now cracked concrete rather than picturesque red brick. Even in good weather, tourists rarely bothered walking this far along Bourbon Street. There were few clubs, restaurants or bars to draw them. Despite that, the Quarter’s characteristic smell of mildew, beer, vomit and urine wafted from the doorways, alleys and parking lots. But unlike the area frequented by tourists, here the litter of discarded go-cups was joined by the jagged green, brown and clear-glass remains of discarded liquor bottles and occasional used needles. It was a reminder of the area’s potential for unsavory night life. Once the sun set, anyone walking alone invited trouble.
Despite the rain, enough daylight remained that I wasn’t particularly concerned about my safety. But with no reason to linger, I walked briskly, my thoughts focused on a hot shower, soft towels and something warm from room service.
At the intersection of Bourbon and Iberville, I glance both ways, looking for traffic that wasn’t there, then kept my eyes on the pavement as I stretched my legs to avoid potholes and the rush of dirty water through the gutters on either side of the street. I’d just stepped back onto the sidewalk and was walking past the boarded-up, vomit-stained entry to a crumbling brick building when I heard a distressed, muffled cry.
The sound came from behind me. I turned around, saw nothing but empty street and sidewalk, and stood, head tipped to one side, straining to hear beyond the sounds of the rain hitting my umbrella. I took another step in the direction of Bourbon and Iberville and heard the sound again. This time, more distinctly.
“Help!”
It was a male voice, stretched and urgent.
I hurried forward.
Suddenly a man lunged at me from around the corner of the building, reaching for me with grasping, gloved hands. But his timing was off and he had misjudged not only the distance separating us but his intended victim. His bad judgment gave me enough time to swing my open umbrella between us and thrust it, hard, at his face. When he stepped back to avoid the metal point at the umbrella’s center, I abandoned it, spun on my heel and sprinted away.
I’d only had a glimpse of my pursuer, but that had been enough to terrify. He wore a black-hooded jacket and a mask, the kind that was available in nearly every tourist shop in the Quarter. Except for slitted eyeholes, it covered his entire face with glossy black feathers.
I ran as fast as I could up Bourbon Street, spurred on by the footsteps behind me. I hung on to my briefcase, mostly because it didn’t occur to me to let it go, and my purse bounced against my body from the strap that hung from my shoulder.
I considered screaming, shouting for help, but couldn’t spare the breath until I was closer to a place where my cries were likely to be heard. Impossible, too, to dig my cell phone from my purse without breaking my pace.
Between me and the lights and traffic on Canal Street was almost a full block of boarded-up businesses, vacant storefronts and narrow, solidly locked entries to a handful of upstairs apartments. I vaguely remembered that there was a Greek restaurant near the end of the block, but I wasn’t certain if it was still open. Even if it was out of business, there were always people waiting just across Canal at the “zero stop” for the St. Charles streetcar line.
My pursuer was no runner. I spared him only a single over-the-shoulder glance, realized that the distance between us was growing, and then kept my attention focused on the lights that marked the distant intersection. Only half a block, I told myself. I could make it easily. And then I would be safe.
As I passed the cavernous entrance to a long-defunct topless bar, a second man stepped out directly in front of me, blocking the sidewalk. He, too, wore a feathered mask. It was crimson.
I swung my briefcase, hard, in his direction as I swerved around him, into the street and kept running.
He was fitter and faster than the first man. A few steps later he caught up with me. His heavy blow between my shoulder blades sent me to the ground. I landed in the gutter, ended up with my back against the curb. I tried to roll, but my long, loose hair betrayed me. My attacker stepped on it, trapping me.
Trying to protect myself from further blows, I curled my hands over my head and kept my forearms pressed tightly against my face. I lay there, gasping for breath, as cold water rushed around me, soaking my linen jacket and dress.
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