Throne of the Peacock Angel

By Salim Khalid

“A mysterious radiance slowly developed in the dark alley, growing in intensity, gradually taking the form of an alluring full-bodied woman with ghostly braided locks, startling everyone, including Worthy Deen. The specter was as translucent and elusive as a wisp of fog, sparkling with eldritch power. Her fluttering robes gave the appearance of soft, fuzzy, white light. Her features were indistinct but captivating, and her bare, ghostly feet spurned the filth of the walkway over which
she floated, eerily peering at the gathering.”

Throne of the Peacock Angel is a twisted and captivating tale of mystery, murder, mysticism and betrayal, in which the protagonist, Worthy Deen, is reluctantly entangled.

Worthy Deen is a successful, yet reclusive business owner in New Orleans whose life is capsized by influential and ruthless forces.

Additionally, Worthy carries a terrible and haunting secret that grants him paranormal abilities while exacting a horrific toll.

Join Worthy Deen as he battles with life and limb to unravel the candlelit mysteries and arcane secrets of New Orleans, Charleston and the timeless Sea Islands of the South Carolina coast. CAVEAT LECTOR!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665543262

Salim Khalid

Salim Khalid is a resident of Atlanta, Georgia, but he is originally from New Orleans, Louisiana. The arcane folklore of Southeast Louisiana fascinated him as a youth. Salim was even more spellbound when touring the swamps and bayous of the region that are as much part of his heritage as the cuisine. Salim received a B.S. from Mississippi Valley State University, and a M.A. in Sociology from Texas Southern University. Salim has traveled to Egypt, visited the pre-Columbian archeological sites in Mexico, and precincts of the American Civil War. He has toured the barrier islands of Georgia and South Carolina. Not surprisingly, Salim favors the mystery-supernatural genre. In his first novel, “Master of the Estate,” he introduced the reluctant hero Worthy Deen. The current work, “Throne of the Peacock Angel,” is a gripping sequel in which the sleuth Worthy Deen reappears after a 10-year self-imposed hiatus.

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© 2021 Salim Khalid of Trans-Saharan Publications LLC. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   02/24/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-4322-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-4326-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover Design by Arthur Lawrence Digital

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This book is Edited by:

Pavita Singh

Kelsey Brown

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1     The Homecoming

Chapter 2     The FBI

Chapter 3     The Squatter

Chapter 4     Maurice St. Claude, M.D.

Chapter 5     Katarina Braun

Chapter 6     Isabelle DeLisle

Chapter 7     The Muddy Glass

Chapter 8     The Green Peacock

Chapter 9     The Interview

Chapter 10   Gentlemen Shark Billiards

Chapter 11   Enter Lucifer

Chapter 12   Jasmine Fancy

Chapter 13   The Silver Ghost Saloon

Chapter 14   An Accord

Chapter 15   A Seductive Demise

Chapter 16   Selma Ali

Chapter 17   The Temple Of Innocence Adoption Agency

Chapter 18   Dinner is Served

Chapter 19   Class is in Session

Chapter 20   The Angel Oak

Chapter 21   Officer Virgil Haskins, Retired

Chapter 22   Judgment

Chapter 23   Resurrection

Chapter 24   A Roper Goodbye

Chapter 25   Eva LaPaige

Chapter 26   The Halka

Acknowledgements

"Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues but the

parent of all others." – Marcus Tullius Cicero

Writing a novel can be a daunting and burdensome task. Receiving the initial epiphany from the Muses may be likened to the thump and rumble of distant drums that only the author can hear. Vast stretches of desert and of veld, of forbidding mountain passes and forest streams, lie between the first scribbled sentence and a completed literary work.

Fortunately, this adventure need not be taken alone when one is blessed with intrepid companions willing to brave the unknown. As such, I tender my genuine appreciation to my wife Ella Khalid for her patience and support. To my friends and colleagues, Carey Cook-Hawkins, Tandra Williams and Olivia Rudder-Wilson, thank you for your time, feedback, and advice.

Prologue

"And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away."

Day is Done, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

I told you, Haywood, love all, trust a few.

Any reason why you’re boring me with Shakespeare again?

Yes. Didn’t I say we couldn’t trust the guy? The detective sipped his coffee while staring into the night. We’ve been sitting here for hours when we should be on a legitimate stakeout.

I know what I’m doing, the second man in the passenger seat confidently rejoined. Those hillbillies can wait. This is chemical contraband. It’s big—military big.

Or the big head, detective. Batiste again sipped his coffee. Anyway, how did your guy come by the info? It’s not like he’s in the loop.

Drink up. Det. Toledo was agitated. He dropped a dime and I picked it up. It’s that simple.

Then you picked up crap. Batiste appreciatively gazed at his own dusky reflection in the rearview mirror and stroked his mustache. So, you’re still angling at a promotion.

If you must know, pretty boy… The detective adjusted the collar of his trench coat and briefly rubbed his hands together to warm them. I’ve been thinking about going solo.

Batiste continued to stare into the rearview mirror, patting his hair. Soft, coal black, and wavy—just the way I like it.

Is that all you have to say, black man? The detective smugly glanced at Batiste.

No. It sounds like a TV drama, Batiste sighed. Haywood Toledo—Black Private Eye.

What’s wrong with that? Det. Toledo defended his position. I’m one of the best detectives in Orleans Parish, and I have the best arrest and conviction record in the department.

One of the best egos too, Batiste retorted. And your cousin is a lieutenant.

Alfred had help moving up the chain from the same guy I’ve been teaching Tae-Kwan-Do to for the last two years. I got here on my own steam. Det. Toledo again rubbed his hands then adjusted his skullcap. Hell, I trained you too, rookie. I’m thinkin’ that it’s 1980 and it’s gonna be my year.

And I’m thinkin’ Fräulein what’s-her-face has gotten in your head, Batiste persisted.

No, someone else.

Hmm, let me see. Batiste contemplatively tapped the dashboard. What about Kujoe Belzoni? He’s a private dick.

Me in business with that two-faced backstabber? You wanna talk about the big head? The average human head weighs around ten pounds, but Kujoe Belzoni’s noggin is a freak of nature. It’s like an Easter Island head. You can damn near hear the wind whistling inside his frickin’ skull.

You were still living in Baton Rouge when a theft ring was targeting the Claiborne motel chain, stealing televisions and appliances. The thieves covered their tracks, but we had a few leads. Well, by that time, the Claibornes became frustrated with our lack of progress and hired a private dick, Mr. Kujoe Belzoni. He learned of our operation from Lt. Alfred Robinson, and before we closed in on the thieves, that rat Belzoni shows up on TV at an out-of-business retailer where the hot goods were being kept. The merchandise was recovered, but we never apprehended the perps because they saw it on the damn television and skipped town. That backstabbing Belzoni took all the credit. He made us look like fools. Alfred took a lot of heat and has been looking for payback ever since.

Look alive, partner! Det. Toledo tensed. That scruffy guy with the backpack standing under the streetlight looks suspicious.

He looks like a bum, Batiste skeptically remarked. Maybe he’s here for the carnival. Some of his type are still hangin’ around.

Fat Tuesday was the 19th of last week, genius, Det. Toledo glanced at his watch. It’s 3:50 AM, February 26th, and cold. Look at’em nervously checking out the area—wants to know if he’s being tailed. Duck! He sees our car!

The man in question peering from beneath the streetlight was white, gaunt, and unshaven, wearing a worn military field coat with a bandanna tied around his head like a sweatband to hold back his long, unkempt red hair. He momentarily stared at the dark Ford LTD but was uncertain if it was occupied or if it was simply an illusion of the night. His concentration was broken when a black van drove up and stopped sharply blocking his view. The man engaged in a short conversation with someone in the passenger seat. Thereafter, a pudgy white male wearing a business suit, short in stature, dark of hair, and clutching a briefcase stepped from the van. The vehicle immediately sped away.

Both men crossed the dark street, their shoes sounding off in the silence, and continued to walk until they came to the side door of a warehouse closed for the night. The suit warily scanned the immediate area, unlocked the door, and both men hurriedly entered the dark facility.

I knew it! Det. Toledo slid up in his seat. It’s going down!

You’re one lucky bastard. Batiste also slid up, reaching for the radio. I’ll call it in.

No! Wait! Det. Toledo quickly grabbed his partner’s hand. We don’t have probable cause. Say we have two suspicious characters at a local business closed for the night and request immediate back-up.

Suddenly, the disheveled man angrily exited the side door of the warehouse with his backpack flung over one shoulder. The suit followed him, urging the man to re-enter the facility. Arms flailed and heated words were exchanged.

Deal’s going south, Det. Toledo warned, sitting low in his seat watching the men across the street with concern. Any uniforms in the area?

Only one car, Batiste answered. McKay and Flowers. I told’em to come in quietly. The other units are handling the homicide of a vagrant allegedly committed by—get this—the devil.

That’s New Orleans for ya, Det. Toledo casually remarked crouched in his seat. All the uniforms gotta do now is put the pedal to the metal.

The man likes his fast cars. Don’t sweat it—they’ll be here.

Check it out, partner! The perps are going inside again! We’ll go in and catch’em with the goods. Det. Toledo clenched his fist. If the uniforms ever get here!

Check yourself, partner, Batiste cautioned him. Procedure reads…

Screw procedure! The detective angrily struck the door and glanced at his partner. The perps will get away! This is my chance to outshine the brass!

We don’t know what’s waiting for us in that warehouse! Batiste insisted.

Like you said, Det. Toledo commented, we’ve staked out this place for hours and we’ve seen no one, not a single soul, except for those two guys. They’re alone.

We’ve already wandered off the reservation, Batiste again cautioned his fellow detective. It’s your ass and mine if we screw this up.

That’s why I’m the best detective in Orleans Parish, pretty boy. Det. Toledo checked his firearm. Our official story is: ‘At or around 4:15 AM, we were following leads for the drug trafficking investigation and heard the call on a homicide that we thought was related to our case. We were on route to the scene of the crime and observed a suspicious tall, white male closely following another white male of the business community who appeared to be under duress. We intervened to assess safety.’

Haywood, that sounds good enough to be a TV drama, but this is life—the real thing.

We’ve got a tall scruffy loser and a short wimpy suit! We can handle ’em!

Okay Icarus, Batiste reluctantly consented. Let’s wing it.

Icarus? Det. Toledo was stumped. Forget it, they’re here.

Both men emerged from their car as the police cruiser pulled up behind them, parked, and cut its headlights. Two uniformed officers stepped out.

Here’s what we have, Det. Toledo provided the uniformed officers with a situation analysis.

I don’t know, a uniformed officer said skeptically. It’s a big place.

That’s why I’m a detective and you’re not, Ofc. McKay! Det. Toledo’s temper flared. The side door is open. All we must do is contain’em, but the collar is mine.

Burdette and the poolhall is yours, Haywood, Batiste sternly corrected his partner, checking his revolver. But the collar is ours.

Of course, partner, Det. Toledo framed a cryptic smile. Bars, beers and pretzels later.

The four men quickly crossed the street with drawn weapons and tried the side door.

See? Det. Toledo whispered to the officers. Like I said, it’s open.

The officers quietly entered the warehouse on the balls of their feet. The outside streetlights provided subdued illumination through dust-crusted windows in the dark facility. Forklifts, other machinery, aisles upon aisles of large, high stacked crates, metal drums, and various containers were observed as the officers furtively advanced.

Don’t use your flashlights, Det. Toledo whispered to the uniforms. They’ll give away our position.

Nobody’s home, detective, Ofc. McKay softly stated. And it’s dark as hell.

Something’s wrong, Batiste admitted as they cautiously traipsed pass stacked and crated merchandise. This doesn’t smell right.

They’re here, Det. Toledo insisted. And so is the stuff. We’ll split up and…

Suddenly, rapid fire erupted from multiple directions shattering the silence of the facility.

Trap! It’s a…! Batiste cried.

Batiste! Det. Toledo bolted for cover as his partner limply collapsed to the cold concrete floor, his body riddled with bullets.

Haywood Toledo returned fire and then dashed towards Batiste but was knocked from his feet by the same unrelenting barrage before he reached the fallen detective. I’m hit! Det. Toledo shouted in a panic and then scrambled to the safety of metal drums, leaving Batiste where he lay.

Flowers! McKay! Det. Toledo called to the officers as his position was relentlessly bombarded with gunfire. Those are automatic weapons! I’m pinned down!

No shit! Ofc. Flowers saw to McKay, then braced himself on unsteady legs against a stack of large containers while reloading his revolver and returning fire.

McKay is down, but he hit one of ’em and the guy sounded like a krout! I’ve taken a couple of slugs! Ofc. Flowers shouted over the roar of the assault, but there was no reply. Toledo? He again yelled, only to be answered by pressing silence, for even the deafening bombardment had ceased.

Ofc. Flowers gingerly emerged from cover, sweating profusely, bleeding from his wounds, and holding his revolver ready with one hand while coddling his injured arm. He frantically scanned the facility, but there was no sign of the attackers or any indication they were ever present were it not for the sheer abundance of shell casings littering the general area of the assault. The cold warehouse was again noiseless and still except for the officer’s heavy panting.

Batiste! Ofc. Flowers painfully limped to the fallen detective lying facedown in an expanding pool of his own blood. Flowers himself was quickly becoming lightheaded due to his own unattended injuries. Rivulets of perspiration ran down his pale, shaven countenance, and he again desperately scanned the area with blurring, bloodshot vision. The officer knelt, baring his teeth in anguish, and turned Batiste over to stare into the sightless eyes of his dusky, bloodied face. Momentarily, Ofc. Flowers collapsed with a plaintive groan and a graceless thud beside the slain detective.

Lights flashed and sirens raged outside. The cavalry had arrived.

CHAPTER 1

The Homecoming

(March 1980)

There was a rap on the door, but the young man did not hear it over the music of the radio. He continued to sing to an R&B tune using a broom as his dance partner.

An attractive woman dressed in a red pantsuit with shapely hips, a rich brown complexion, and impeccably coifed hair emerged from the office. Donny, didn’t you hear the door?

Donny was a gangling African American man in his early twenties with thick crispy black hair and the hint of a goatee.

Mr. Woodson, the lady ordered. Turn down that music!

Sorry, Eva. Donny finally took notice. When I was in the parish prison…

I’ve heard all of your jailhouse stories. Eva marched over to the radio, turned it off, and then pointed to the door with an irritated look on her dusky face. Open it!

Donny hurried to the entrance, hearing repeated knocks and seeing a silhouette beyond the colored glass.

Sorry, Worthy. Donny released the locks and opened the door. Come in.

Much obliged. Worthy walked in and dropped his duffle bag on the floor. He scoured the place with an appraising eye and an expression of satisfaction. How are things going? he listlessly asked.

The lady smiled, removed a folded newspaper from the bar, and read, Cleopatra’s Review is a premier evening spot on the entertainment circuit in the Irish Channel section of dreamy New Orleans. It offers ambiance, Egyptian motifs, fine dining second to none, and live jazz on Fridays and Saturdays. One may even rub shoulders with civic leaders and celebrities. Cleopatra’s Review is reservations only due to its soaring popularity and attentive staff of seasoned professionals led by its elegant hostess Eva LaPaige.

But it don’t say nothin’ ‘bout Worthy, and he owns the joint.

Donny, sweep, Eva ordered.

Congratulations. Worthy casually walked to the bar. Any soft drinks back there?

Don’t try to play it off. I’m damn good, Eva said smugly, handing him a cola.

Can you take a compliment? Worthy gulped down the contents of the can and scanned the immediate area as if looking for something. Where’s the…?

Leave it on the bar, Eva directed. The waste can is outside drying. You know, it’s good your sister Cleo helped to organize this place and to give it a proper name.

Are you kidding me? Worthy laughed. She named it after herself.

Hey, if it works. Eva smiled. I expanded the wine list.

Eva, I told you I didn’t want to buy expensive wines that nobody can pronounce. They’ll sit on the rack and catch dust.

Worthy, Eva framed a look of disbelief, this is Cleopatra’s Review. Work with me here. I had to expand our wine list to stay competitive. We’re not the only restaurant in New Orleans. Have you given any consideration to my suggestion?

Come on—that again? Worthy sighed, lowering his head in frustration. Where would I live if you converted my pad into a second level for the club?

It’s a restaurant, not a club, and you can live anywhere you want to with your money, Eva replied. Think in terms of revenue.

We seat 40 tables, and we already make good money.

Think more tables and more revenue, Worthy, Eva urged.

All right, I’ll give it some thought, but…

No buts, Mr. Deen. Sleep on it, but don’t forget.

I don’t forget anything, Worthy listlessly answered, moving towards his duffel bag.

Is that right? Eva teased. Where are your keys?

Worthy began to pat his pockets. He then stooped down with a frustrated swear and unzipped his bag but immediately turned around when he heard a jingle behind him.

Looking for these? Eva glided towards her boss and handed him a set of keys.

Where did you find ’em?

Under your office chair, she smugly replied. You left in such a hurry last Friday.

Worthy zipped and lifted his duffel bag. My trip took longer than I anticipated.

No doubt. You look whipped, Eva intently appraised him. And you’ve grown a goatee to go with that mustache—I like it. Perhaps one day we’ll find out who ‘she’ is, but you’re so secretive. Maybe it’s because of that mess you were involved in back in 1970.

Nineteen seventy—damn, that was ten years ago! Donny cried in disbelief. I was only thirteen years old and Eva here, was, was…

Donny, stop trying to guess my age and get your broom to moving! And when you finish, that the mop is calling your name!

All right, all right. I gets the message, Donny relented and continued sweeping the floor. But can’t we get a little music?

In primitive male language, that means you’re hoping that the music drowns out my voice. Eva turned on the radio. Satisfied?

Eva reviewed Worthy’s attire with disdain. A second-hand corduroy sport coat and faded, torn blue jeans—you can do better, Worthy. You should also get rid of that old GTO for a new ride. Cleo said you used to drive a Cadillac.

We weren’t meant for each other, he responded heading towards the kitchen. Any problems while I was away?

One incident, Eva bluntly affirmed.

Worthy abruptly stopped, giving Eva his full attention.

I fired Venetta. She didn’t show up for work again, Eva sat on a stool in front of the bar. I need another body to replace her.

That was one fine sister, but she had a few problems, Donny added.

I know, that’s why I fired her, Eva stubbornly proclaimed. And I’ll do the same to you if you’re late again. Understand?

All right, Donny said and continued to sweep. I gets the message. I gets the message.

That’s another thing, Worthy. I should do all the hiring. You agree to take in these ghetto hussies, and I have to fire ’em when it doesn’t work out. ‘Looka’ here, can I hep ya’? Eva comically imitated the former employee. They have no training, and this isn’t a school. I called Venetta but her phone was disconnected. I dialed the second number in her file belonging to her girlfriend Na’Queeta, but she was at the jailhouse bailing out her own baby’s daddy, Shavestus-Keeron. Worthy, you never shoulda’ hired Venetta. That woman had only two previous jobs on her handwritten resume. The first position was at a Gold Tooth Emporium or something like that, and the second job was doing hair in somebody’s kitchen.

Eva snatched up and re-read part of the newspaper article: Cleopatra’s Review is reservation only due to its soaring popularity, she then emphasized, and attentive staff of seasoned professionals. Memorize that line, Worthy. Seasoned professionals.

Moving on. Eva smacked the newspaper to the bar. That cute Dr. Maurice St. Claude called to remind you of your appointment, and he sounded kinda troubled. How he plans anything around your schedule is beyond me. You don’t have a schedule.

Maurice, Worthy downed a glass of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, has a private examination room at his house. I don’t like hospitals.

Eva laughed. You don’t like hospitals, so your personal physician has an examination room added to his house. That’s what I call service. Still, you’re never sick. You don’t catch colds, develop fevers, or get tummy aches. Oh yes. Eva snapped her finger. You received a call from a reporter wanting to do a story on the restaurant. He sounded young and white.

Why didn’t you handle it?

Because he said the assistant editor instructed him to get the story directly from you.

What’s his name? Worthy smothered a yawn.

"Rafael Ghost Stevens. What a name. He’s with the Times."

I don’t know him. Worthy probed his memory.

He said you wouldn’t recognize his name, but you do know the assistant editor, Mo Barlow.

Worthy chuckled and nodded.

Also, your cop friend called. I gave you his messages when you telephoned to check in. He called again a couple of hours ago, and guess who else?

Worthy introspectively rubbed his hairy chin and sighed. Not the Bacons?

Eva nodded. Yep. This time Pearly Bacon himself called, sounding all countrified. He said he still wants to buy you out. Your menu is too fancy, and what we need are pork chops and chitlins. He even suggested that I should marry his youngest brother Uriah and work for him.

Worthy laughed shortly. And what did you say?

Worthy! Pearly Bacon is more country than baked possum. He wears gold on his hands, around his neck, and in his mouth. It would be like smooching Fort Knox. He’s got money, but they are…

Crooks, from what I hear on the street, Worthy finished her statement. And they bought out Horton Foucher.

Horton Alleys? Eva was mildly surprised. Man, that bowling alley was there before I moved to New Orleans. The Bacons have more money than I thought. And if memory serves, Horton Alleys was also in the papers a couple of times for brawling. I wonder what happened?

What do you think? Rumor has it the Bacons made an offer for the place, but Horton rejected it. Next thing anyone knew, Horton was out and the Bacons were in.

Smells fishy to me, Eva opined.

Smells like swine to me, Worthy added. But it’s none of my business.

I’m surprised that they haven’t tried to strong-arm you, Worthy, Eva was inquisitive.

They did, but I gave Uriah and his bodyguard something to consider.

When were they released from the hospital? Eva laughed shortly.

The same day. Then he left town.

Uriah Bacon? Eva excitedly inquired.

No, the bodyguard, Worthy indifferently answered.

Oh well, Eva giggled. Uriah has probably hired a new bodyguard with the kinda money the Bacons are throwing around town.

And I have a gut feeling that I’ll be seeing him real soon, Worthy added.

You are the most comfortable black man I know, but your heart is too big, and you play down your success. It’s like you carry a burden.

You have no idea, Worthy absentmindedly touched his heart to which a mystic Egyptian scarab was subcutaneously attached, a secret privy to only a few confidants. Donny, have Bertha wipe down the bar when she arrives. It’s too sticky.

What’s wrong, Worthy? I can hear it in your tone, Eva inquired. Come on now, you’re fifty years old and you look like you’re in your thirties. Things can’t be that bad.

I’m tired. He stretched and yawned. Anyway, I’m going upstairs to take a shower and get some sleep after Donny answers the door.

There was rap at the entrance.

Both Eva and Donny inquisitively glared at Worthy.

I saw a silhouette through the glass. Worthy explained.

Donny released the locks, opened the door, and instantly caught his breath.

A tall young white officer with dark hair styled in a crew cut walked in holding an official-looking envelope.

I didn’t violate my parole, Mister Officer, Donny defensively pleaded. So why you hassling me, man?

Relax, I’m not here for…wait a minute, aren’t you Donald Gates Woodson? Yes, you are. We busted you for burglary over a year ago. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but you and your accomplice, one Ory Hollow, got trashed. You decided to burglarize a private residence, but you had spent most of your money on rotgut wine at a local convenience store and didn’t have enough to buy stockings to cover your faces. You then re-entered the store, purchased for a couple of Sharpie markers with nickels and dimes, and used them to paint your faces in the parking lot in full view of the security camera.

"You broke into the home through the window two blocks away from the same store, but you, Mr. Woodson, fell inside the residence and busted your knee. Mr. Hollow entered the same window, but his pants caught the latch. The both of you were too drunk to figure out how to free it, so Mr. Hollow removed his britches and left them.

You snatched up the first thing you saw, a pocketbook, then ran for the door, but the locks confused you, so Mr. Hollow attempted to break it down and dislocated his shoulder. He fell out unconscious while in his underwear because his pants were still caught on the window latch. You revived him, figured out how to release the locks, exited the home, and hobbled back to the same convenience store.

You reviewed your prize only to discover what you thought was a pocketbook was in fact a baby bag filled with soiled diapers. The store manager notified us that two drunken black men with painted faces, one limping on a busted knee, the other in his skivvies with a dislocated shoulder, were arguing in the parking lot over a diaper bag. You didn’t realize the customers at the gas pumps were laughing to high heaven because you were so drunk. What’s worse, you were surprised when we arrived. It was absolutely hilarious.

I’m innocent I tell you! Donny insisted.

Yeah, we got a kick out of that too. The officer nearly broke into a full guffaw. Especially when we retrieved Mr. Hollow’s britches containing his wallet and I.D. from the residence where the break-in occurred. But like I said, I’m not here for you.

Donny wiped his brow in relief. Well, if you ain’t come for me, we open at…

I’m not dining either. The officer wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. I’m here to see Mr. Adam Worthy Deen. Is he available?

Worthy nodded his approval. Yes he is.

Mr. Deen?

That’s me, Worthy responded, walking up to the tall cop. What can I do for you?

I’m Ofc. Cooper. My lieutenant asked me to personally hand this to you.

Personally? Donny repeated in amazement. It must be important!

Important? Eva returned with sarcasm. A cop personally delivers a correspondence to Worthy from the NOPD—of course it’s important! Sweep!

All right, all right. I gets the message.

Worthy received the envelope and thanked the officer. After that, Donny joyously opened the door, and a gust of wind entered the club. The cop marched towards the exit, hesitating to address Donny. I guess we’ll be seeing you around, Mr. Woodson.

Not if I can help it, Donny rejoined.

The officer took his leave. Donny closed and locked the door with a sigh of relief, but the cop could be heard laughing outside. A car cranked and drove away moments later.

Worthy tore open the envelope and read the message.

Eva attempted to appear unconcerned, but curiosity got the better of her. What’s this all about? she asked, leaning over his shoulder.

You mind? Worthy held up the large brown envelope. It’s marked private.

Don’t make me ask you again, Eva insisted.

Let’s go in my office, Worthy smiled.

But I can’t hear nothing in your office, Donny said. And I need Worthy’s help to get into junior college. I’m gonna study drafting.

Don’t you need a G.E.D. first? Eva rolled her shoulders.

That’s why I need help. You see, my final test is next week, but I’m having trouble with biology. The teacher says I won’t pass if I don’t do well.

Perhaps you should be studying something other than those girly magazines and stop hanging out with that thief Ory Hollow.

Come on, Eva. Ory ain’t too bad. Sometimes his head don’t work too good, but we’ve been friends since the fifth grade.

Donny, Eva said in disbelief. Ory Hollow was on the news in handcuffs three months ago for a possible homicide and car theft! The only reason he didn’t go back to jail where he belongs is because the owner was already dead in the car from suicide!

That’s what I mean, Donny held his position. Ory was innocent.

Donny, Ory approached a parked vehicle and found the driver dead behind the wheel from suicide. Ory had the nerve to shove the man out on the street, stole the car, and picked you up in the same vehicle, making you an accessory. He then dropped you off here for work and went for a joy ride. He wrecked the car on Tulane Avenue a block from Parish Prison, and you were almost charged with murder!

But I was innocent too, Eva. Like I said, Ory’s head don’t work good because he’s like his folks.

Donny, Eva angrily clenched her fists. You were released thanks to me and Worthy. Ory had the unmitigated gall to ask us for help and took with an attitude when Worthy refused. You need to change your associations. What happened to that nice young lady you were seeing? At least she had her own apartment and car.

I cut her loose while Worthy was away, Donny momentarily halted. Sometimes I wanted to hang out with the fellas, but she wanted me to visit with her and go to church.

Boy. Eva chuckled, dismissing his explanation. To a woman, that means you planned on drinking yourself into oblivion with your primitive, pre-evolutionary buddies.

Didn’t I say I was having problems with biology? And there you is using them big college words, ‘prevolution’ and stuff like that.

Eva stomped her foot, threw up her hands in resignation, and turned away.

Don’t get upset because Donny Woodson is on the move, Eva. I can see it now. ‘Donny’s Sho Nuff Drafting Company.’

Congratulations on your success, Worthy saluted. Why do you need my help?

Well, you see, Donny cleared his throat, my teacher says he knows you. So I was wondering if you would talk him into giving me a break on the test.

Forget it. Worthy waved him off. Study your books. Who’s your teacher?

His name is Mr. Wilkers, Smitty Wilkers. He said you helped him out ‘bout ten years ago, and you introduced him to his wife, Mrs. Janice Dumont-Wilkers.

That’s about the same time all of that Sanchez stuff occurred. Eva raked Worthy with narrowed eyes. Maybe one day you will tell me the true story.

You see, Worthy, Donny pressed his case, if you’re really feeling generous…

Donny! Eva proclaimed.

All right, all right. I’m sweeping. I gets the message.

Worthy flopped down in his chair once inside his office. It feels great to be home. The chair whined as he swiveled.

You need to talk to Donny, Eva suggested. He listens to you. He has a good head on his shoulders, but that Ory Hollow has less brains than a head of cabbage.

Donny is his own man. Worthy sighed. His father can talk to him.

He’s not up for parole for another two years, Eva smugly rejoined. The state of Mississippi is pretty hard on men who rob senior citizen homes at gun point.

I’ll look into it, but no promises. Worthy yawned again and noticed that his office had been rearranged. What happened in here?

I moved some things around to make it more efficient, Eva quickly replied.

I won’t be able to find anything for a week, Worthy complained.

You’ll survive. Eva took a seat and leaned forward in anticipation.

It needs oil. Worthy swiveled in his whining chair and frowned.

Eva slapped her hands on the desk. You have more room in here than my matchbox. Now tell me what’s up!

Okay, okay. The correspondence is from Alfred.

Alfred Robinson the cop?

Alfred the lieutenant, Worthy corrected her.

Lieutenant? Eva was taken aback. When did that happen?

Some time ago, Eva. Worthy chortled. He tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t give him the time of day.

Alfred is moving up the ladder thanks to you. What does he want?

Lt. Robinson wants to meet with me at a local pub in a few hours. He says he sent the correspondence because I haven’t returned his calls.

You’ve gotta do better. Business is business, Worthy. Why’s Alfred so secretive?

I don’t know. He says that it’s important and that other people will be attending.

It sounds like something big. You’re the perfect man for the job.

How do you know it’s a job? Worthy inquired with concern.

Because secrets are your business. Some say that you’re different from the rest of us. Of course, I already knew that. Nothing seems to bother you, except…

Except what? Worthy momentarily paused.

Except you never discuss your children and you live way below your means.

Worthy opened his desk drawer, fumbled through some papers, and then closed it.

It’s still there. Eva appraised her red nails.

What’s still there? Worthy again yawned.

Your gun, Eva responded. Or didn’t you think I knew about it? But that also tells me I was right. They want you for something important, which is probably why that woman stopped by here earlier.

What woman?

A rich white woman whom Donny calls ‘her highness’, Eva jealously rejoined. You should have seen him, acting like he’s never seen money.

Maybe he hasn’t unless he was burglarizing a home, Worthy joked.

Eva removed a business card from her pocket and handed it to her boss.

Sorry about the smell, Eva apologized. Donny brought me some peppermints and I had ’em in my pocket with the card. That’s also why it’s dog-eared in the top left corner.

Antoinette Duval, Worthy read her name. I don’t know her.

She’s a foreigner—French, I think.

French, eh? Worthy commented. I wonder what she wants with me?

Her highness wouldn’t discuss her business with the hired help.

Then how do you know she’s rich?

Oh, the seven-jeweled rings on her fingers. Eva gesticulated with disdain. Her expensive European get-up and her five-hundred-dollars-an-ounce perfume. Did I mention the limousine and chauffeur? And her shoes were a thousand dollars a shoe, you hear what I’m saying? Believe me. She’s loaded.

Are you sure she’s French?

She sounded French to me. But she’s probably faking it. The witch may be from Bonita, Louisiana for all I know.

Worthy noticed the mail stacked on his desk. He removed one envelope.

I knew that one would catch your eye. Eva grinned. Central State Prison—an important person from the old days in Georgia, perhaps?

Worthy withdrew a letter opener from his lap drawer. It’s from Reggie Fiend, an old friend from Atlanta.

Is he the warden or on the prison board of pardons?

Not exactly, but he does spend a lot of his time there off and on.

You’re just like Donny. Eva threw up her hands in disbelief. Why do you keep in touch with a convicted criminal?

This criminal, Worthy smugly replied, watched my back at the…

Old Sanchez plantation. Eva appraised her nails. It seems you made a lotta friends during that incident. Well, at least your friend writes. My old fiancé wrote me three letters when he graduated from Alcorn State University. The first letter began with the phrase, ‘My dearest Eva’. In the second correspondence, he said, ‘Hello Sweetheart’. And the last one read, ‘To Whom This May Concern’.

Listen to this. Worthy read the letter:

Looka here, ma man, old Reggie Fiend gonna be out on da street in another 6 munths so da gawrds keepin’ a watch on me becuz sume of these yung chumps tryin’ to make a rep. Sume of dem cume up in da jailhouse wit attitoode, wantin’ to git their manhood badges and go back to the straight world as real men so I had ta beat one of dem crazy, that’s y da gawrds gotta watch out for me ‘til my perole come up so I won’t be turned down again.

Gotta letter from Alfred. He still a cop but moe big time with that promoshun. I been takin’ sume writin’ classes. I wants to rite a book to lurn these yung chumps howta make it in da jailhouse. The teacher man says I needs ta mprove on ma spellin’ and red sume moe books so I been readin a book by this preacher frum Hooston, Texus, the Apostle Philosopher Creek. Da title of da book is Heaven or the Earthly-fied Punk. Man, dis bro is smart and uses dem’ big wurds! He done time in da’ Texas jailhouse and even wrote me a letter. Gotta due sume moe readin’ so I can be down with Apostle Creek.

Ya know Worthy I’m getting tired of jail. Ain’t too much happenin’ here but the same old crap. Wanna do sum livin’. They say the reason I got time for stabbin’ that sucka is becuz I shot him first. Didn’t know ya couldn’t shoot and stab a man in self defense. The D.A. said that I shoulda done one or the other, but I feel like the sucka didn’t die so it ain’t no thang. Worthy, I knows you paid for my legal fees but if you can do sumthin’ to get my ass outta here you can bet ya money Reggie ain’t comin’ back. How’s yo restarunt?

It sounds like Mr. Fiend is a few peas shy of a casserole. Eva fanned herself.

They emerged from the office to find Donny singing to music and attending his duties.

I think Miss Duval’s coming back to see you, Eva said. But I couldn’t tell her when you would show up because I didn’t know. Are you sure you’ve never met?

Worthy gave Eva a stare, and she backed down. Okay, okay. I gets the message as Donny would say, but I suggest you get some rest. You’re dead on your feet. Oh yes, Eva entered her office and returned with a small brown box. This came for you.

Worthy grunted enigmatically and opened the parcel. A greeting card embossed with a golden lyre? He checked the package for a return address but found none.

A card and no name. Is everything about you secretive? Eva shook then fumbled inside of the parcel, withdrawing a cassette tape that she handed to Worthy.

Eva turned off the radio, and Donny straightened as if to say something. Keep your pants on. Thereafter, Worthy inserted the tape into dining room’s stereo system. Momentarily, the activation lights flashed across the display panel and music played.

What the hell is that? Donny’s face wrinkled with disapproval.

Opera, Donny, Eva said after several enthralling moments. "It’s ‘Summertime’ from Porgy and Bess. I didn’t know you were partial to George Gershwin, Worthy."

Eva, I don’t know who sent this tape or why.

Worthy was silent as he listened to the soothing opera. It brought to his pensive mind many memories strung together like shimmering pearls. Worthy’s eyes watered with deep, suppressed emotions as he reflected on the music. He clicked off the tape after a couple of minutes and wiped his eyes.

Never saw you react to anything like that. Donny paused, staring at Worthy.

Nor have I, Eva concurred. Are you okay?

Yeah. Worthy reactivated the radio. I’m fine.

Much obliged. Donny slung the mop.

Worthy then grabbed his duffel bag and headed towards the kitchen where a private exit accessed an unlit foyer with a parquet floor at the foot of a staircase.

One other thing, Eva spurted. Some vagrant came by asking for you by name.

Worthy halted with a look of puzzlement and a brief but bitter memory of his days