The Purple Pelican: The Purple Pelican, #1

By Patrick Hennessy

In spite of being the smartest person in Panola country, “Cricket” cannot solve the mystery of who is trying to kill his childhood friend, Ladrillo. In the process of finding the answer, Cricket will meet memorable characters and experience modern-day New Orleans from different and varying angles. Open this book and meet Cecile, Murph, Ace and Rougarou – people not soon forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Hennessy
• Release date: Sep 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781974615322

Patrick Hennessy

Patrick Hennessy was born in San Francisco, California and grew up in Bossier City, Louisiana.  Patrick graduated from Bossier High, Louisiana Tech and LSU Law School.  He is a retired lawyer, having practiced law in Louisiana for many years. Patrick now lives and writes in his home in the South Highlands area of Shreveport, Louisiana.  He and his wife enjoy traveling and spending time at their shot gun house in uptown New Orleans.

Book preview

PREAMBLE

I made up this story and all of the characters in the story.  If you think you any of the characters are modeled after you, I can only hope that your character is not Rougarou.  I, again, use real places in the story with poetic license.  This story is all new.  I resisted the urge to include characters from my earlier books.  Enjoy.

CHAPTER 1

Yesterday’s Wine

It is hard to be the smartest person in Panola County, Texas, especially if you’re five feet five inches tall, weigh less than 120 pounds, detest hunting and fishing, and could care less about football.  There are now people who admire me in Panola County but most, probably 90 percent of my high school classmates, for some reason wanted me to be exactly like them and tended to shun me and tease me because I was different. 

I really did not mind being called a geek because the label had positive connotations in my self-made world.  However, I hated being referred to as queer or gay because I was slight and tended to favor in stature and demeanor my small delicately-built mother.  I only made it through high school because I had no doubt of the love of my parents and because my twin brother, fraternal twin, saw to it that no one bullied me.

It was August in Shreveport, Louisiana, and hotter than anyone in San Francisco could possibly imagine.  The air was thick with humidity and I was reconsidering my move to Louisiana when I saw Angelina and her daughter entering the Greyhound Bus Station on Travis Street.  I had just left a meeting with my brother and a cash-strapped oilman at the Petroleum Club.  When I reached my black SUV in the parking lot behind the Petroleum Club the door handle was so hot it burned my hand.  If the handle had not burned my hand, I would not have looked up and I would not have seen them.

CHAPTER 2

Puppy Love

Angelina McKinney was the unattainable beauty of our high school.  With honey-blond hair and an angelic face she had been the first girl to develop a figure, which in junior high meant boobs.  I loved Angelina and had for as long as I can remember, but she was unattainable because she loved Buck and had since grammar school.  We all knew that they would someday be married and we all thought that they would live happily ever after.  I was gone, but I knew that she was pregnant with Buck’s child just before he shipped out to Iraq.  I also knew that Buck had been killed in Iraq, but that was all I knew.  I could only assume that the sad little girl I saw with Angelina, now three or four years old, was their daughter. 

I had made a halfhearted effort to see her on a recent visit home, learned she had moved to DeBerry and knew I would not be welcome there.  I should have followed up.  As I analyze my failure to follow through, I am forced to admit that my failure to make the effort was related to my failure to keep in touch all those years after I left Texas.

Having both grown up in the community of Deadwood, Texas, we had interacted almost from birth; we played together as small children, went to the same church and all of the same schools.  By the time I was old enough to realize I loved her, she was in love with Buck, so I hid my feelings.  As I walked toward the bus station, I realized that I had not seen or even talked to Angelina in over five years, not even on Facebook, not even by email.  I should have been embarrassed.  I was embarrassed.  I swallowed hard and kept walking.  You can’t change the past I told myself, you only have the future.

Angelina and her daughter, Cherokee, who I would learn was also named after an East Texas county, were in the process of sitting down in the lobby of the bus station when I walked in.  She recognized me immediately.  Cricket, what are you doing here?

Nobody had called me Cricket since I left Texas for California five years ago.  I disliked the nickname.  Everybody calls me David now.  How are you?  Is this beautiful girl your daughter?  Had she not spoken first I don’t know if I would have been certain that it was Angelina.  She looked much different.  Her hair was now dirty blond, her chest was flat, almost sunken as she stooped slightly, her face was hardened like many who had faced lean, unhappy times, but below the surface I recognized her beauty.  It might have been dulled and now shrouded, but the beauty was still there.

I can’t call you David; you have been my Cricket for 26 years.  I heard that you’re rich.  We all knew that you would be someday.

I ignored the reference to my financial success.  I was rich, alright.  In fact, I have more money than Angelina could ever imagine.  Where are you headed?  Do you have time for me to buy you two some tea or a coke?

My bus leaves in a few minutes.  I am going to New Orleans to stay with my sister.  I need to get out of DeBerry.  There is nothing good left for me in Panola County.  My mom had mentioned that Angelina’s parents split up and left town.  I knew that she was in DeBerry, but before I could ask more about Angelina my mom had gotten off on another subject.

I just left Deadwood.  I bought my dad a new pickup and stayed with my parents for a few days.  Mom mentioned that your parents had left town.  I am on my way to New Orleans too.  Do you want a ride?  I’ve got plenty of room.

Angelina was keenly familiar with my dad. I bet your dad was mad as hell when you brought home that pickup.  I bet he told you to stick it up your butt.  Your dad would never want something for nothing.

She was dead on with her guess.  The words had been a little more graphic, but the reaction from my dad was just as she had surmised.  Yeah, he did not want it, so I told him to keep it at the house for me to drive when I come home and to drive it occasionally to keep the battery charged.  My brother says that he will eventually loosen up.  We’ll see.

CHAPTER 3

Drop Kick Me, Jesus

Angelina and Cherokee noticeably stiffened as they looked past me toward the front of the bus station.  I turned as I asked, Is something wrong?  I could tell that there was from the body language.

Angelina spoke, almost crying.  She spoke as if I was not standing between them.  Huey, I told you.  You and I are done.  Leave me alone.

As I turned, I could see the hulking figure of Huey Williams.  I knew Huey from high school.  I knew all of the Williamses, Huey and all of his redneck brothers and cousins who populated nearby DeBerry.  Huey hated me and my brother because when he called me a queer in front of a bunch of our high school classmates, being a little smartass I had replied, Just because I let you suck my dick one time does not mean that I am a queer, after which he had tried to kill me with his bare hands.  Thank God my brother was present, had intervened and beaten Huey until he cried.  My life was spared, but the incident did little to help my reputation.  I wonder if I would have been more highly thought of if I had taken the beating like a man.

On the basis of this history, I could not avoid being anxious, but I’ll be damned if I was going to show it.  This time I would stand up to Huey, if necessary, all the while secretly praying it wouldn’t be necessary.  At first, the asshole ignored me.  I doubt he recognized me.  I don’t dress the same way I did back in high school.  He walked by without looking my way and angrily gripped Angelina’s right arm, which she had raised as if in defense.  You’re coming home.  Get your things and let’s go.

Angelina spoke.  When you have known someone all of your life there is no mistaking yes for no.  Huey, let go of me or I will call the police.  I am not going anywhere with you.

Huey did not let go and instead jerked Angelina out of her chair.  I looked at Cherokee, who was starting to cry as she clutched her mother’s leg.  It was my opportunity to act like a man.  It was necessary; there was no way around it. That’s enough, Huey.  Let her go.  Are you having trouble understanding the English language?  I guess I also found it important to add a little smart ass to mask my trembling knees.

Huey had embraced the redneck culture of East Texas as much as I had escaped it.  He had grown taller and bigger, with sloping shoulders, long greasy brown hair down to his shoulders, an unkempt, scraggly, dark brown beard, blue denim overalls, and a prominent beer belly.  He wore a sleeveless t-shirt under the overalls.  His right shoulder sported a tattoo of the Texas star.  Huey turned to me and from his tobacco-stained lower lip spewed several curse words which, as best I can recall, went something like this: Cricket?  What are you doing here, you little faggot? Then after looking around, added, Where is your brother?  You’re going to need him.

When you are the CEO of a growing company, nobody talks back to you.  For many years people had for the most part listened to me and obeyed me.  Perhaps this irrelevant experience emboldened me. I don’t need my brother.  Let her go.

The words were barely out of my mouth when Huey backhanded me with his right hand and sent me sprawling to the floor.  I was up immediately, deluded into thinking that my two visits to a West Coast yoga class had somehow made me a match for an angry, heartbroken, 300-pound redneck.  Huey hit me this time with his closed fist and it hurt, but not as much as the kick he delivered to my ribs.  As Huey turned to pick up a chair, with the view, I assume, of finishing me off, I caught a glimpse of another person I knew well.

CHAPTER 4

Ladrillo

Huey turned his attention to this new person.  Ladrillo?  Is this old home week?  Don’t get in my way.  I have been waiting for this moment for almost ten years.

It must indeed have been old home week.  Robert Ladrillo Guerrero was another of the few people in our high school class from Deadwood.  Being of Hispanic descent he, like me, had never been a member of the in crowd.  Ladrillo’s one true gringo friend had been my brother, and although neither would admit it they were probably each other’s best friend growing up.  The presence of Ladrillo was a good thing for me, I thought, as I lay on the floor towered over by a berserk redneck about to hit me with a chair.

Lardillo placed himself between me and the chair and somehow it seemed between Huey and Angelina.  He spoke to Huey in a normal voice, without alarm or anger.  What is going on here?  Most people in Deadwood stayed clear of Ladrillo.  In Deadwood people thought that he was deranged.  The old folks, particularly the Pentecostals, also believed that he was blessed with the gift of prophecy.  I was not around him as much as my brother was, but it was eerie how often he would talk about events in the future that would later occur.  What on the surface would seem to be a gift