Mob Magic, page 6
"I do not ask for my old life back," the second female snapped. "After all, you usurped me when I halted as voodooienne, adopting everything, even embracing my achievements as your own." Her hands fluttered, punctuating her words. "No place for the first Marie, as if I never existed. Gone like smoke."
"Why let a stellar reputation go to waste? I accepted the burden of everything you did during your reign over the dances. Besides, there was room for only one queen."
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Marc thundered within his sleep-darkened mind.
"Ah, the little man has finally awakened," the first voice purred.
"Took him long enough," the second grated. "I'd began wondering if he wasn't completely head-blind."
Marc roared, "Quit ignoring me, witch!"
"Au contraire," said the older woman archly, "it is you who've been ignoring us so rudely. I'm not a witch, I'm a queen of voudoun."
"Aha, you finally admit it!" caroled the first voice.
"I meant that in the past tense," the second snapped. "Mind your rebellious tongue when speaking to your mamman, child!"
"Rebellious! Who broke with the teachings of the Church and started the voudoun meetings in the first place?"
"If you feel so zealous about the Church, why did you continue—"
"Shut up!" Marc now saw hazy figures in his dream-fog. One woman was definitely older than the other, perhaps by sixteen or eighteen years. Both had striking features, memorable rather than beautiful. Each had her own powerful, exotic magnetism that fascinated Di Luna as a cobra does its victim. A strong resemblance existed between the women—dark skin, although the younger's shone several shades lighter, wide noses heralding African descent, snapping dark eyes under arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and cascades of black hair confined beneath elaborate scarves layered and whorled like confections. They both wore colorful calico shirts and yards of petti-coated skirts with discreet peekings of lace, clothing of a bygone era.
"Why in hell are you bothering me?" He felt as if he'd finally asked the correct question.
"Non, non, Monsieur, you have it wrong. You disturbed us," the older one stated with an assurance that shook Marc to the core of his being. "And none of us is in hell. Yet."
"How could I have disturbed you? I've never even seen you before, much less spent time with you. You must have died almost a century before I was born!"
The younger woman tilted her head. "You do not realize? You have visited us both recently."
"And have stolen that which belongs to us. It is our right to be here, to persuade you to return our property. As promptly as possible.
Marc's outrage and disbelief got the better of him. "Where? When? I've stolen nothing from you! You're both crazy."
"You visited the graveyard of St. Louis in New Orleans recently, non?" the younger asked.
"And saw there the resting place of the voudoun queen—"
"Queens!"
"Very well, queens were we both. Eh, you remember, the vault had little messages tied with red ribbon, and offerings of food and money left before it."
Di Luna wrinkled his nose. The heavy odor of old beans and rice in humid air suddenly revisited his olfactory senses. "Disgusting, particularly in that climate. The place stank of rotting food. A health agency should be called in, should forbid it in future."
The young woman shrugged. "They know this is done. They allow these offerings from my—our—followers and fully understand what will happen if they don't."
Her mother nodded. "And what happened as you were leaving the cemetery?"
The head of Chicago's organized crime syndicate frowned. "I interrupted the guide's speech, turned quickly, and pushed my wife out of there. We got into the limo and headed for the hotel, had a drink, checked out, then went to the airport."
"He has blanked it from his mind." The daughter flung her hands into the air and shook her head at her mother in resignation. "His memory refused to work. Mon Dieu, can we do more than we have already done to convince him?"
"Try again," the second woman urged.
"Very well." The first female turned blazing black eyes on Marc. "Do you not recall what came away from that cemetery with you?"
"I—I fell." Di Luna's eyes widened suddenly. "The coin ..."
"... belongs to us," the elder nodded. "We are here to secure and return it. But there is one petit problem. We cannot carry it ourselves. We are now purely spiritual creatures."
"You mean," Di Luna said slowly, incredulity coloring his voice, "you expect me to cancel everything to return to New Orleans and put that damned quarter back? I don't even know where the thing is! I'll give you a hundred coins, no, a thousand, of the same denomination to replace it. Will that do? No? All right, two thousand! Now let me get some sleep!"
Both ladies shook their heads before the older one spoke. "That we cannot do, at least not until that same coin takes its place again at our gravesite."
"I'll have the housekeeper search it out, and I'll send one of my secretaries back with it. And the rest." He nodded, thinking he'd reached the best solution. "That ought to work."
"But no, mon cher, the one who stole the coin must put it back, as acknowledgment and apology," insisted the younger.
"And what happens if I don't?" snapped Marc. "I don't have time for this crap!"
Both ladies recoiled at his vulgarity. The elder recovered first, her head at a regal angle that made Di Luna feel like a recalcitrant child. "We shall invade your rest, make sleep impossible, shape your dreams to bother you much more than now. Much more."
"And since you will find it difficult to lead a normal life, you will go lunatique," the daughter finished. "Unpleasantly so."
"So you're leaving me no choice."
"You had none in the first place."
"None at all." The Creoles shook their heads, their hair coverings Marc somehow knew were called tignons waggling tendrils of red, blue, and yellow as exclamation points.
Di Luna straightened his dream-form, his six feet not that much taller than the older Marie. "Very well. In the morning I'll cancel my appointments and order the plane readied for a return trip to New Orleans. Does that satisfy you?"
Mother and daughter nodded. "Bien."
"Now get out of my head."
"Non, mon ami. That we cannot do," said the elder mournfully, but with a wicked twinkle in her black eyes. "We must stay as reminders and impellers, to make certain you complete your promise."
Marc's roar of frustration woke his wife.
The hazy Chicago morning dawned on the Di Luna household in disorder. Giving no reason, Marc canceled important meetings that had been scheduled for a month, sullying his pristine reputation among business associates. He stalked about the house giving orders in a foghorn voice, brown eyes fever-bright under lowered brows and face pale. He drove the frazzled housekeeper to search every article of clothing in his closet for the coin, then every article of clothing in the house. She finally found the off-the-rack slacks in a sack stored in a little-used cubby which she cleaned only twice a year, intended for donations to the poor at St. Mary's parish. Drawing the coin from a front pocket, she held it out to her employer.
Di Luna snatched it from her shaking hand without thanks, poked it gingerly into a jewelry pouch of Tesa's, then tossed the embroidered satin envelope to a yawning bodyguard. "Keep it safe." His eyes glittered strangely in his haggard face. "If you don't, I'll see to it you'll lose more than your job."
The bodyguard straightened immediately. "Yes, sir."
The drive to the airport was silent and uneasy. Tesa threw furtive "Why me?" glances at her husband while the guards kept watch for danger lurking on the roads or in the skies. The man in charge of the coin touched the breast pocket of his suit often to assure himself of its presence. Marc adopted a stony attitude with arms crossed across his chest and chin down, only surfacing to bustle his wife out of the car and into the plane when the limo stopped at the small airport where the company hangared its two jets.
"I can't believe I'm doing this!" Di Luna's mind sang over and over. Just a hint of African drums, their pace accelerating his heart, answered. He knew the two Maries were still in his mind—he could feel their presence just beyond his internal sight, waiting impatiently for him to fulfill his promise.
His belief in curses now rivaled his fear of graveyards. The last thing Marc wanted to do was to pass through the wrought-iron gates of St. Louis Cemetery and replace the coin at the Laveau oven vault. His skin crawled, bad feelings assailed his mind. "Perhaps I should take ribbon and leave a request with all the others," he thought. Composition of that scathing note occupied his attention until the older Marie whispered, "Americaine," with an inflection that consigned Marc irrevocably to the redolent summer gutters of the old French Quarter.
"Italian-American," he snapped back aloud, startling Tesa and his bodyguards. "Sorry," Di Luna muttered just above the noise of the jets. "Guess I've been dozing."
"Oh, honey, you'll be all right as soon as you get back on your sleeping schedule," his wife said. "Here," she dug in her purse, a tiny but expensive thing just large enough for lipstick, hairbrush, ten credit cards, and a bottle of pills. "Take a Valium. It'll help."
"No." Marc said tightly, remembering at the last minute to tack on "Thank you" so her feelings wouldn't shatter. He didn't want to put up with Tesa's "poor baby" attitude, nor did he dare get groggy now. Anything could still happen.
The little jet touched down just before noon without incident in the sultry southern airport. Di Luna hustled his party into the limo awaiting them, then punched down the air-conditioning. Heat and humidity again, in combination with his own feverish mental state and lack of sleep, made him feel queasy.
The claustrophobia began when the car turned from the freeways onto smaller streets leading to old town, then along narrow avenues designed wide enough for two horse-drawn carriages to pass. The famous Spanish-influenced wrought-iron balconies on many of the brick and stucco buildings leaned heavily toward him despite their airy look. Marc found his breath short, his heart keeping pace to soprano and bass drums that beat African-inspired rhythms through his consciousness. He steeled his resolve. "It'll all be over in a little while," he assured himself silently as the car wound slowly toward its goal on the far side of the famous old settlement.
Past the square, where lines of mule-drawn carriages awaited passengers. Past the Cafe du Monde, where a brass jazz trio of two blacks and a white were in full roar on the last verse of "Basin Street Blues," the trumpeter's case open to encourage donations from appreciative listeners and offer their latest CD for sale. Past the Rue Royale's coffee, antique, and curio shops where a tourist can buy anything from a praline to Mississippi sternwheeler charms to a Civil War-replica pistol to yard-long strands of bright plastic and glass Carnival beads. Past quiet residential "courtyards," houses built around breeze-catching space open to the sky behind colorful high walls that discourage prying eyes. Marc wondered briefly if one had once belonged to either of the Maries.
The younger of his mind-phantoms shook her head. "Not here. We lived in a modest area. These are town houses of wealthy Creoles, the ones known as free persons of color, such as bank owners and those lucky enough to inherit family money."
"Cottages housed us," the older Marie stated.
"Ah, very much like Chicago for some," muttered Marc.
"Nothing like Chicago," both women chorused.
The limo finally turned onto Rampart Street. The proximity of the graveyard made the hairs rise on Marc's neck and arms.
The car pulled to the side of the avenue, next to the gates of the St. Louis Cemetery. Marc exited after two of the bodyguards, hauling Tesa out by her hand. A guide waited at the wrought-iron barrier with a key, glancing at his watch.
"It's very irregular to open up a half-hour early," he drawled.
Marc thrust a hundred-dollar bill into his hand. "I understand, but this is an emergency. Make sure you and the other guides get something good out of this."
"Yes, sir!" Eyes wide, the man unlocked one side of the gate and swung it wide. "There you are, sir, ma'am. Anything special I can show you while I'm here?"
"No," Di Luna said roughly. "I know where I'm going." Careful not to trip, hands shaking with more than his usual spate of graveyard nerves, he headed for the Laveau vault. Planting himself firmly in front of it, he reached his left hand to the bodyguard with the coin. The man pulled the fabric jewelry pouch from his pocket and handed it to his employer.
Marc took out the coin, examined both sides, shrugged, then quickly bent and placed the quarter among the other offerings left for the voudoun queens. It looked no different from the two quarters he carried in his front suit pocket. Rubbing his fingers as if he'd carried something noisome between them, he stepped back from the grave and listened intently.
"What is it, honey?" asked Tesa, worried.
"Shhh," replied Di Luna, searching within his mind for taint of the voodooiennes.
No drums, no Creole-lilted French. No Maries.
Grinning, feeling better now than any time in the last two weeks, Marc thanked the guide and returned to the limo with his wife and bodyguards. In a festive mood, he bought them all dinner at a famous Creole restaurant while waiting for the Lear jet's refueling. He settled deep into the limo's cushions on the ride back to the airport, convinced he could finally sleep. Dismissing the driver with a huge tip and a compliment on her driving when she pulled the car to a gentle stop on the tarmac, Di Luna scrambled out and boarded the plane with his wife, bodyguards front and back. As soon as the jet climbed into the air and headed for Chicago, Marc fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Tesa roused him just before landing and handed him an envelope. "This just came for you from the pilot, darling. It came over the radio."
Marc tore open the sealed paper. Screening it from the eyes of his wife, he read the few handwritten lines.
"Situation serious. Must have your decision immediately."
He crumpled the note. "Damn."
"Something important?" asked Tesa.
"Just means I'll have to spend a few hours in the office tonight before I can come to bed."
She pouted so very prettily. "Oh, honey, do you really have to?"
"Sorry." He kissed her tenderly, the first time in two weeks. "I really have to. I'll make it quick as possible, I promise."
They held hands during the limo ride back to their lakeshore condo, even while he was on the phone. Marc kissed Tesa again before she disappeared to tuck in their children, Carl and Julia. Di Luna disappeared into the office he maintained at home, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.
"Di Luna here. What's the situation now? That bad?" He listened for a long time, his expression turning stormy as he settled into his high-backed leather chair. "Sounds like we need the hit squad. No, not all of them, just the best, the top three or four. Yes, I'll see to it. Don't worry. Immediately."
He put down the phone. Disgusting how things could quickly disintegrate when he took a few hours off. This situation had involved a major drug pickup and sale. Somehow the authorities had gotten wind of it, apparently through the flapping mouth of one of the little people involved whom he hadn't been around to approve. No time to delay. He punched a number.
"Guido, Di Luna here. Yes, the trip went fine. Listen, I need your help. Remem-m-m—"
African drums robbed his throat of speech, his mind of thought. Both Maries stood before his internal eye, bright as if surrounded by flames.
"You said ... you'd get out ... of my dreams!" Marc labored to howl. "I returned your damned coin!"
"Oui, your dreams," the older Marie spat. "This is not one."
"And you are directing an odious plan again," her daughter stated. "We are here to stop that. To stop you."
"You can't. This is free-enterprise business," Di Luna returned, recovering.
"Oh, but we can, mon cher," replied Marie the First with a feral grin. "This duty was given us by Powers beyond the grave. We do not sit biding our time in Purgatory but are involved in active good works. We've been planning your retirement for months."
"Better than singing hymns to a Being who turns an ear our direction once a century," Marie Fil nodded.
"And infinitely more satisfying." The older voodooienne nodded to the phone squawking in Marc's hand. "That call was routed straight to the police. An individual in your organization, one you trust, has been an informant for quite some time."
Di Luna felt the blood desert his face. "But this line is secure."
"No more," Marie the younger announced. "The authorities are on the way."
Marc roared, "I'll get you voodoo bitches!" Dropping the receiver, he lunged for them, hands clutching at their throats.
And passed right through. The wall of his office brought him up short. Turning, Di Luna dove again, pounding his fists against the edge of the desk when he couldn't reach the Maries.
"Definitely deranged," the daughter said. "But he'll recover in time for a lengthy trial."
"Oui," agreed her mother. "Now, much as I hate to miss a delicious denouement, there is that situation with the senator awaiting us."
"Must we go?"
"Only if you're not interested in finishing two dances in the same night."
"You're still determined to make a reputation."
"You're the one so desirous of continuing the one I build." She twitched the flounce of her sleeve into place. "Let us be gone. We are finished here."
They faded, leaving howling Di Luna to the ministrations of the police breaking through the door.
* * *
Assassins & Hitmen
"Tonight, he will be sleeping with the fishes."
What's a mob without a hitman? It would be like a politician without a bribe, a precinct without a pad, and a stoolie without an unfortunate and very fatal accident. Whether he's a very close friend of the family or just a very professional hired gun practicing homicide for profit, he's a principal member of the organized crime team, ready with a rod (or some equivalent) to help settle age-old or recently incurred family disputes.
