Vieux Carré Voodoo Read online

  But after Colin’s betrayal, I wasn’t interested in communing with Her anymore. How could She have let me—and everyone I loved—be completely deceived by a sociopathic killer? She never even gave me one of Her “figure this out for yourself” vague clues.

  She was dead to me, and good riddance to you, bitch.

  Okay, maybe I was a little bitter about the Colin thing.

  So the summer of 2005 dragged on, and about mid-July my family and friends suddenly woke up to the fact that my thirtieth birthday was approaching.

  And the teasing started.

  My birthday is in August, which means I was born under the sign of Leo. (And every single time someone asks me for my astrological sign, I always get the same reaction when I tell them I’m a Leo. They smile, nod knowingly, and say, “Of course you are.” I choose to take it as a compliment.) All the weeks leading up to my birthday, there seemed to be a concerted effort by every single person I know—relatives, friends, etc—to convince me that I was going to wake up on my thirtieth birthday to discover that my life was over. I personally didn’t think it was a big deal—age is just a number, and I believe you can enjoy life at any age—my grandparents and parents are prime examples of this. When they started giving me shit about it, at first I just laughed it all off. But after a while, the constant teasing and warnings started to get inside my head a little—which, of course, was their evil plan all along. My best friend and workout partner, David—who I might add is almost forty and was one of the worst teasers—finally let me off the hook the day before my birthday at the gym, when I was freaking out a little bit.

  “Get a grip, girl.” He laughed and rolled his eyes as I struggled with the leg press machine. “You’re not going to wake up tomorrow and have no sex drive, no hair, and no teeth. My thirties were way better than my twenties. You look great; you have a hot as hell boyfriend, a great family, and lots of friends—so you’re going to be thirty. Forget about the number and just enjoy yourself.” He winked at me, shaking his head. “Such a drama queen.”

  I absolutely love David. He’s a great friend—and through all the murders and things he was always right there by my side. Considering the fact being my friend has directly resulted in his car being totaled, his nose broken, and his house shot up, I really am lucky he still talks to me.

  And he was right. In fact, my thirtieth birthday rocked pretty hard, to be honest. It fell on a Saturday, and Frank woke me up with breakfast in bed wearing just a black jock. “Now this is something I could get used to every morning,” I said as I sat up in bed, giving his amazing body a longing once-over with my eyes. He’d made my absolute favorite breakfast—blueberry pancakes with strawberry syrup, with some bacon crisped up in the microwave—with a mimosa and a cup of coffee spiked with Baileys. Frank climbed back into the bed with me, and when I finished everything on the tray he gave me a pretty nice dessert.

  Ah, if only every day could start that way!

  And that was just the start of an absolutely amazing day. I got lots of nice presents (an iPod I’d been coveting, a new laptop, tons of clothes, and an ounce of killer pot from Chico, California, from my parents)—and maybe the best present of all came from my two grandfathers.

  They released my trust funds. They’d frozen them when I’d dropped out of Vanderbilt, and to be honest, I kind of figured the money was gone for good. Instead, with a couple of signatures and notary stamps, I went from having eight dollars in my checking account and about fifteen in my savings to having a net worth (on paper) of about eight figures. I had no idea there was that much money in my trusts. I couldn’t touch the principal—all of our family’s trusts are set up that way, to protect us from fortune hunters and our own stupidity, as my mom says—but I could access the interest income. That was enough so that I never had to work another day in my life if I so chose.

  Timing is everything. As I said before, our little private eye agency wasn’t exactly a smashing success. We’d even been considering closing the office and just working out of the apartment to save money. It had even gotten to the point where I was seriously considering breaking out my thongs and shaking my ass on bars for dollars again.

  The other thing I hadn’t known about the trusts was that all the money was invested in oil and health insurance stock, so it was just going to continue to increase in value.

  I felt a little guilty about that. In my mind, those two industries are the modern-day epitome of evil. So I asked my mother about it—I mean, this is a woman who has chained herself to the front gates of nuclear power plants. She just shook her head. “Scotty, blood money spends just like any other kind,” she said, “and when a charity is cashing your check, they don’t care where the money originally came from.” She sighed. “I know that might seem like a justification, but real life isn’t black and white—there’s an awful lot of gray.” She winked at me. “It helps me feel better about the money. I mean, if the oil companies knew what I did with my share of their profits, a lot of high-powered executives in board rooms would need to change their underpants.”

  So I wrote a nice check to the NO/AIDS Task Force, and Frank and I decided that every quarter when I got the interest checks, we’d donate half of it to charity.

  And there would still be more than enough money left over for us to live on, quite well.

  That night, my best friend David provided us all with some of the best Ecstasy I’ve ever had and we went dancing at the gay bars in the Quarter, going back and forth from Oz to the Parade and back again. The deejays played the best music ever, and I danced and danced and danced like there was no tomorrow. I felt beautiful, and happy, and loved.

  All in all, it was one of the best birthdays I ever had.

  And the next afternoon when I woke up in Frank’s arms, I remember thinking how blessed I was. I lived in the greatest city in the world with the man I loved, I had the best friends and family any gay man could ask for, I had more money than I knew what to do with, I had my health, and I just couldn’t imagine life getting any better than it was at that very instant.

  How was I supposed to know that just around the corner was the biggest bitch-slap reality could come up with?

  Just eight days after that wonderful lazy afternoon in bed with Frank, a Category 5 one-eyed bitch named Katrina came roaring ashore just to the east of New Orleans. For those of you who don’t have televisions or computers, the storm surge came into Lake Pontchartrain, and the federally built, funded, and maintained levee system that was supposed to protect the city from just such a thing was a little, shall we say, inadequate.

  I’m not going to talk about Katrina and the aftermath. I lived it, and I don’t want to relive it, thank you very much. If you didn’t see me on CNN being interviewed by Anderson Cooper, I’m sure it’s on the Internet somewhere.

  Okay, maybe I’m still a little bitter about the Katrina thing. You would be, too.

  But when Katrina was out in the gulf, and the entire city was engulfed in panic, I decided to try to talk to the Goddess for the first time since Mardi Gras. I got out my cards and gave it a try. But apparently She wasn’t happy that I’d turned my back on Her, because no matter what I did, the gift was gone.

  In a way, it was also kind of a relief. Being able to see the possibilities the future holds might seem like a really cool thing, but it actually isn’t. It’s a lot of responsibility, and people look at you funny when you try to convince them you’ve spoken to the Goddess.

  It’s funny how fast time goes by when you get older. Granted, it wasn’t like I had a foot in the grave or anything, but time just seemed to start slipping through my hands. After the floodwaters receded, we just took life one day at a time and did what needed to be done. We didn’t sit around and mope. We didn’t mourn for what was lost. Instead, we girded our loins and did what was needed to bring the city back to life. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and New Orleans wouldn’t be rebuilt in one, either. My parents, Frank, and I did a lot of volunteer work after they finally managed
to pump all the water out of the city—gutting and rebuilding houses, driving around the devastated parts of the city handing out supplies to people working on houses in areas without water and power. And slowly but surely the grand old lady known as New Orleans began coming back to life again.

  She’s not what she once was, but she’s still one hell of a great city.

  It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a flood and federal incompetence to wipe us off the map.

  And by the way, all you haters who thought the city should be abandoned? Fuck you, and don’t think you are ever welcome to come here and enjoy our special magic.

  And remember that Mardi Gras you didn’t think we should have that next year? It was the best one ever. Ninety percent of our city might have been in ruins, but New Orleans could still throw a better party than any other city in North America.

  No flood could ever kill our spirit.

  Like I said, I guess I’m still a little bitter. You would be, too.

  But even as I was gutting houses and pulling up linoleum in wrecked houses, my mind would sometimes go back to Colin. It seemed like he was always in the back of my mind. Despite everything I knew to be true about him, I still had feelings for him. You don’t just stop loving someone, no matter how much they’ve hurt you. There were just so many unanswered questions. We hadn’t gotten closure, and I didn’t think we ever would. Whenever I was out dancing, or in a crowd, I’d find myself looking through the crowd, scanning their faces, and then would realize what I was doing was looking for him. I just couldn’t believe we were never going to see him again.

  I missed him.

  I couldn’t help feeling, even though my gift was gone, that there was unfinished business there, and that he’d turn up again one day when we least expected it.

  “Earth to Scotty, come in, Scotty,” David said, bringing me back out of my mental time travel. “Are you there?”

  I just laughed and helped him put the weights away.

  “Easter’s this weekend,” David said as we moved over to the preacher curl machine. “Come on out for Tea Dance. It’ll be fun—you’ll see. It’ll get you out of this funk you’ve been in ever since Frank left.”

  “Yeah,” I replied as he started his set. He was right, I knew. Frank wouldn’t want me to sit around the house and mope. Besides, Mom and Dad were making me ride in their float in the Gay Easter Parade. Mom and Dad own a tobacco shop at the corner of Royal and Dumaine called the Devil’s Weed. Mom and Dad were far left liberals, and probably the best, most accepting parents a gay man could wish for. “Maybe. I have to ride in the Easter Parade, so maybe…”

  “You’re turning into a hermit,” David said when he finished his set. “You need to get out of the house.”

  “But what if Frank calls? I’d hate to miss him,” I replied stubbornly.

  “You are whipped, Scotty,” he teased me. “Meet me out this weekend. What’s it going to hurt? Have a few beers, smoke a joint, dance a little—you owe it to everyone in New Orleans to show off that body again.” He winked. “It’s been a long time since your adoring public has seen you shirtless.”

  “Fat Tuesday wasn’t that long ago,” I replied.

  “A month and a half is an eternity in gay years.”

  I laughed. “Well—”

  “You need to go out and get in trouble, is what you need.”

  I made a face. “No, I’ve had enough of trouble, thank you very much.” I shook my head. “I’ve had enough trouble to last me a lifetime.”

  “True dat.” David rolled his eyes. “I don’t miss having my car totaled, or my house shot up, or my nose broken, or—”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  After we finished our workout, I went home and looked at the calendar. Another two more weeks before Frank came home.

  He wouldn’t want you to sit around the house and mope.

  I lit a joint and decided that I would go out and have some fun on Easter. David was right—what would it hurt? Frank was having a good time up in Ohio, doing something he wanted to do.

  But I’m quite sure if Frank had known the kind of trouble I was going to get into while he was gone—he’d have never bought that damned plane ticket.

  Chapter One

  EIGHT OF SWORDS

  New beginnings are possible.

  One of the rules of walking in the French Quarter when the weather’s warm is always look up when you walk underneath a balcony, or you’ll be sorry.

  You’d think having lived in the Quarter all of my life, looking up would be second nature for me by now. But I was lost in thought as I hurried up Governor Nicholls Street. I was really missing Frank and wishing he were here instead of in Ohio. I was on my way to ride on my parents’ float in the Gay Easter Parade, and it felt really strange to be doing it without Frank. I was debating myself as to whether my relationship had descended into an unhealthy level of codependency. I was paying absolutely no attention to my surroundings, other than making sure I wasn’t about to walk into a support post for a balcony. I had just decided there was nothing neurotic in missing your boyfriend, and that I should just relax and enjoy myself. It was a beautiful spring day, after all, and riding in a parade was always fun. I took a deep breath, cleared my head of all negativity, and started walking faster so I wouldn’t be late.

  And that was when I was completely drenched by a cascade of cold water from above.

  My reaction was reflexive and instinctive. “Fuck!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, which got me a really nasty look from the couple pushing a stroller across the street. I sighed, gave them an apologetic shrug, and their disapproving frowns turned into slight smiles at my expense.

  I was soaked. Water was running down my back and chest, dripping out of my hair, and to my horror, I realized the white bikini my mother had so thoughtfully provided for me to wear in the parade apparently became see-through when wet. I immediately dropped my hands to cover my crotch as my eyes darted back and forth, looking for other pedestrians. The couple with the stroller shook their heads, gave each other a look, and started pushing the stroller a lot faster.

  Obviously, they were tourists.

  I shivered. The cool damp breeze coming from the river was much colder on wet skin. I knew I should’ve worn sweats over the costume.

  “Scotty? Is that you? Oh, dear, I’m so sorry!” a familiar voice said from above me. There was apologetic concern tempered by a slight bit of amusement in the tone.

  I looked up and my initial irritation faded away to embarrassment. “Oh, it’s okay, Doc,” I called up to the bald older man peering down at me through gold-rimmed spectacles. “I wasn’t looking, like an idiot.” I sluiced water off my arms and shook my head from side to side. Droplets of water flew away from my hair.

  “Well, come in and let me give you a towel.” He shook his head. “I’ll buzz you in.” His head vanished for a moment before reappearing almost instantly. “And you can explain to me what you’re doing in that ridiculous get-up.” His face broke into a wide grin, and I couldn’t help but laugh as I dashed over to the metal gate at the side of the building in time to open it when the buzzer sounded.

  Dr. Benjamin Garrett was a friend of my parents. He’d taught them both when they’d attended the University of New Orleans. He had been a full professor in both history and political science, and my mother frequently credited him for “opening her eyes to all the injustice in the world.” We all called him Doc—well, when we were young we’d called him “Uncle Doc” until he asked us to drop the “uncle” because he said it made him sound like a relative of the former dictators of Haiti. He loved to debate politics with my parents into the wee hours of the morning over bourbon, his eyes twinkling as he deliberately took an opposing viewpoint to wind my mother up. I’d always liked Doc. He was fiercely intelligent, a bit of a curmudgeon, and one of the funniest people I knew.

  No matter the situation, he always managed to have the absolutely perfect, droll thing to say on his lips. He wa
s the epitome of the old-style Southern gentleman, and he was always dressed stylishly and appropriately. In the summer, he wore seersucker suits, bow ties, and Panama hats. After Labor Day he switched to navy blue suits and dark red ties. He liked his bourbon and cigars, and he always seemed to have a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. He walked with a cane now that he was older, and had been completely bald for as long as I could remember.

  I paused long enough to take a look at myself in the plate glass window of the candle shop on the first floor of Doc’s building. I’d been working hard at the gym since Frank left. Now that I was in my thirties, my body seemed determined to develop love handles. Frank said he didn’t mind them, but I did. My goal was to be as lean as I’d been when we first met by the time he came home, and I was making progress. The wet white bikini was unforgiving, but I didn’t see any pesky fat hanging over the sides. I winked at myself and dashed down the dark passageway alongside the building until I reached the back stairs. Another blast of wind brought up goose bumps on my skin as I climbed the stairs. Doc was standing in the door to his apartment holding a huge fluffy white towel, which he handed to me. One of his gray eyebrows went up as he peered at me over his round gold spectacles.

  “It’s for the Gay Easter Parade,” I explained as I toweled my hair and wrapped the towel around my waist. “I’m riding on the Devil’s Weed float.”

  “And your mother decided you should dress up as a gay Easter Bunny.” He nodded as he stepped aside to let me in. “And to her, that means a white bikini with a cottontail and rabbit ears.” His eyes twinkled. “Now slip off that bikini—I’ll throw it in my dryer for a few minutes.”

  Frank had laughed out loud when my mother first broached the idea to us a few weeks ago. It didn’t bother me—when you’ve danced on bars for years in a thong you don’t really have many inhibitions left about public displays of skin—but Frank had resisted. No matter how many times I tell him resistance is futile with Mom, he never listens. Mom suspected his decision to train as a pro wrestler was rather conveniently timed to get him out of bunny duty on the float.