Mack explained that there were two eight-hour shifts at the Bayou Brew, with a barman and waitress for each one, and himself and the owner, Rob Harlenson, alternately running the bar. And one of the barmen, Lenny Rillet, used to keep a diary.
‘…Though not fo’ the best of reasons.’ Mack looked down at that moment, thoughtful, troubled, as he weighed something up. ‘Probably the best shot you’re gonna get at it, though. C’mon. You’ll be safe wi’ me.’
Mack explained as they headed deeper into the Ninth Ward. Lenny Rillet used to keep a diary because he was dealing drugs from behind the bar. Small stuff then, packets of marijuana and speed, for which he’d enter times, names, weights and payments in his diary in code.
‘Harlenson was already suspicious, found one o’ the diaries one day, and finally got rid of Lenny. But that was way after Larry Durrant wen’ down. And I know Lenny used to hang on to those diaries, ‘cause in each one he’d have new names an’ contact numbers. Business resource, yo’ might call it…. ‘specially with how things turned out later wi’ Lenny.’
Rillet had either left drug-dealing for a while, or stayed so small time that nobody noticed. But then suddenly five years ago, he’d burst back on the scene big time, and now was one of the Ninth Ward’s main crack dealers.
‘Only a couple o’ blocks away now. We’ll be there soon.’
Jac felt his anxiety mount as they sank deeper into the shadows of the Ninth Ward; now four blocks from Henny’s, the efforts at revival with reformations or newer community blocks started to fray, giving way to rows of older houses, many of them dilapidated or derelict. The light was sparser too, with many of the streetlamps smashed, the shadows in between heavier, more worrying. A wino suddenly appeared from one dark patch, making them jump — though Mack commented that he was probably playing look-out for someone; then, only twenty yards on, two sets of eyes emerged from the darkness of a car on bricks, watching them warily as they passed.
‘Don’ worry, you’ll be safe with me… Now he’s one of the Ninth’s main crack dealers… You might s’well jus’ phone the funeral parlo’ befo’ yo’ get dere.’
Late fifties, Mack Elliott was already slightly out of breath; though maybe that was partly anxiety, too, Jac thought, because suddenly he wasn’t so sure how safe they’d be. Certainly the nods and smiles of acknowledgment Mack gave to the few people they passed were now tighter, more hesitant.
And as they came to the row of eight half-derelict shotgun houses that Lenny Rillet apparently called home, and Mack announced himself as an ‘old frien’’ of Rillet’s and the hoods were slipped on them by two armed teenagers, Jac’s foreboding settled deeper.
Shotgun houses were four or five rooms stacked back to back with no corridor; so called, because if you fired a shotgun at the front, the bullet would pass through every room.
In the last minute of their approach, Mack had explained that Rillet would move from room to room: he could be in the second room of the fourth house, or third room back on the sixth. Nobody ever knew. And all visitors were hooded and spun round several times to disorientate them before being led through. Two or three armed teenage ‘clockers’ out front, half a dozen or more inside, plus two or three older, more experienced guards. Few people knew what Rillet looked like, and the chances of getting to him before catching a bullet were remote. ‘That’s how he’s managed to stay alive s’far.’
And now the smells as they were led through: stale musk, urine, faeces, vomit, a pungent burning, like rubber mixed with rope, and a faint chemical smell that Jac couldn’t place.
And now sounds: muted mumbling, coughing, a few groans, a sudden wild cackle subsiding to a chuckle. And every few steps, Jac could feel debris or rubbish around his feet, or maybe it was clothing and people. Something brushed past one ankle: a hand reaching out, or a rat?
Jac felt himself descend deeper into hell with each step. His head was burning inside the hood, his pulse pounding at his temples, his mouth dry. Each step had taken them further into the shadows and into danger, away from the light and safety; now, within only fifteen minutes, Henny’s cafe seemed a lifetime away. I’ll be okay, Jac told himself. Mack had promised, ‘You’ll be safe with me.’
But as he heard Rillet’s tone greeting Mack, and the argument that ensued between them, Jac felt that last vestige of hope slip away. He knew then that they were about to die.
‘Why yo’ bring someone here, Mack?’
‘He… he’s the lawyer tryin’ to save Larry Durrant. That’s why I brought ‘im to see you.’
‘Uhhmmm. Larry Durrant? You think that’s gonna score points wi’ me. You an’ I — we ain’t eyeballed each other in what? Six, seven years? So fo’ sure you don’ score no points there, Mack.’
‘He’s tryin’ to get some information on Larry’s movements at the Brew from twelve years back. I couldn’t help with that. And I thought yo’ might be able to.’
‘An’ even when we used to see each other, we din’ ‘xactly swim in the same waters… if yo’ know what I mean.’
It was like two disparate conversations, with neither party listening to the other: Mack desperately pleading his case of Durrant and the Bayou Brew of twelve years ago, while Rillet was making it clear that their past association cut no ice and Mack had made a big mistake in coming there.
Mack took a fresh breath, introduced a more hopeful tone. ‘Thing is, Lenny, I thought to myself, while yo’ might not remember that far back — you always kep’ those diaries.’
As soon as the words left Mack’s mouth, it became chillingly clear that it was a step in the wrong direction: sealed rather than saved their fates.
‘Ooohh. Those diaries? Yeah. Funny thing that, ‘cause, ya know — I always suspected it was you that told Harlenson ‘bout them. Got my ass fired from the Brew.’
‘Wasn’t me, Lenny… Promise. Harlenson was already suspicious, and he foun’ that diary that day all by hi’self — without no help from me. I didn’ say nothin’ to him.’
The desperation in Mack’s voice was heavy, clinging by his fingertips to what little ledge was left.
Silence. Rillet let Mack’s words hang in the air, savouring his discomfort.
‘Yo’ know, Mack. That’s where all your figurin’ has gone sadly wrong. Since you and I were on noddin’ terms, I changed mo’ than yo’ can imagine. I’ve had guys killed here simply ‘cause I didn’ like the tones o’ their voices. Didn’ think they gave me ‘nough respect. Or ‘cause I thought a splash o’ red on the walls would bring the graffiti more to life.’ Resigned, derisory snigger. ‘So wi’ the heavy doubt I got ‘bout what you jus’ tol’ me — what makes yo’ think now’s gonna be any differen’? ’
Silence again. Heavy, cloying.
And then, breaking it after a second, sounding deafeningly loud, the slide on a gun being snapped back.
‘Please…. Lenny. Don’ do it. I’m not here for myself. I’m here tryin’ to save Larry Durrant’s ass. Nothin’ more.’
Silence again. Longer than before.
Jac found that his breath was held, his body starting to shake, legs weakening as he anticipated the gunshot at any second.
‘That’s the beauty of the hoods. You can’t see m’ face. Don’ know if I’m smilin’, scowlin’, makin’ the signal to fire — or wavin’ my boyz’ gun arms away.’ A purposeful pause, Rillet wallowing in their fear; a conductor’s baton poise that could fall either way. ‘An even if I am smilin’ or wavin’ them away right now — that could all quickly change.’
Jac jumped with Rillet’s sudden clap; only a foot behind himself and Mack, it was no doubt intended to resemble a gunshot. Jac was hit with the realization that Rillet had probably done this before, many times; and that he relished the feeling of power it gave him over his victims. And, riding aboard that, the hope, however slim, that it was just that, a game, and Rillet wouldn’t have them killed.