'Used to be that the coffins floated to the surface when the rains came,' Frankie had explained. 'Water level's too damn high round here. That's why everyone ended up getting buried on top, in these vaults.'
They were parked by the Basin Street entrance, the high metaled gates closed for the night.
'Come on,' Billie continued. 'Let's get back to the hotel.'
'Give it time,' said Frankie. 'New Orleans folk never do nothing till they're ready.'
Ten minutes later, just as Adam had lit another cigarette, they saw the fat boy walking towards them, his guitar still strapped over his shoulder and the cardboard box in his hand. When he reached them he stopped and held it out to Adam. It was empty.
'You've got to sing before I give you anything,' said the Englishman.
'What you wanna hear?' asked the fat boy, his voice screech high and irritating.
'What've you got?'
'Not a lot.' He put the box down on the sidewalk and swung the guitar over his ample belly. He strummed it twice, hit an A chord and an E, then swung the instrument back over his shoulder. He picked up the box and held it out to Adam. 'How's that?'
Adam reached into his pocket and took out a dollar bill. He dropped it in the box.
'Ain't much,' said the fat boy.
'50 cents a chord. That’s all it’s worth.'
'Hell, you want more than that for heaven. Or you planning on going to hell.' The fat boy tilted his head back and let out the most piercing long scream that brought Billie to her feet and Frankie leaning out of the cab window.
'You promised. You promised,' ranted the excited fat boy at Adam. 'You did. You did.'
'What did I promise?' asked Adam warily.
'A thousand bucks. A thousand bucks.'
Adam started to laugh as the fat boy danced around him, still shrieking 'a thousand bucks, a thousand bucks.'
The metaled gates of the St Louis Number One swung open and Fruit Juice came out to them.
'Cut it out, Arbi,' he shouted at the fat boy. 'Cut it out.'
'But he promised. He promised.'
'And he's as good as his word. Ain't ya?'
Adam grinned and took out some banknotes from his jacket pocket. 'Five hundred now. And five hundred after.'
'He broke his promise. He broke his prom…' shrieked the fat boy.
'I said cut it out,' Fruit Juice snapped at him. He turned to Adam. 'But he's got a point.'
'I just want to make sure.'
'Money. Hell, it's a terrible thing between friends. Okay boy. We do it your way. But don't change your mind. I have friends…in low places.' He turned and led the way back into the cemetery. 'Come on. Voodoo time.'
Adam walked over to Billie and took her by the elbow.
'Okay?' he asked.
She nodded and he sensed her nervousness. He squeezed her gently to reassure her.
'Frankie?' Adam turned to the cabbie.
'No. You guys enjoy yourselves. I'll wait for you. Remember, we need you back at the hotel by eleven. And take it easy. You on someone else’s turf now.'
Frankie watched them pass through the doors, the fat boy behind them. The metaled doors closed and the stillness of the night returned. Frankie closed the door, wound the window up and locked the doors. This wasn't a place to be on your own at this time of the night. He settled down to wait, his hand-gun cocked and cradled in his lap.
There were only six others there, standing by the tomb with the freshly chalked X's marked on it.
Adam had expected more people but his knowledge of voodoo was confined to what he had read or seen at the movies.
The group, away from the main paths that ran through Number One, was clustered together, chattering amongst themselves as they waited. The small clearing was lit by a number of flaming torches, unnecessary in the bright moonlight, but necessary for the right effect.
As they approached, the group fanned out in a welcoming V. Beside them, near the base of the tomb were three large boxes, sealed with their lids on.
'Where are the dancing girls?' asked Adam.
'I thought you wanted to see a real ceremony?' drawled Fruit Juice, stretching out the word 'real'. 'All them dancing girls and jazz bands, that's for the jerks. There's no Baron Samedi here.'
They stopped by the group and Adam saw it consisted of four men and two women. The men were dressed in long black coats and top hats, their faces covered with animal masks, each one different and powerful in its design. They represented a monkey, a goat, a chicken and a pig. Each mask was painted white.
The two women, both short, wore long satin dresses in a style reminiscent of the 1820's. One of them wore a monkey's mask, the other showed her face. It was a striking face, her Creole mixture of African and Spanish heritage bringing a hypnotic beauty that was stunning.
She moved towards Adam and Billie and took their hands. She drew them to the tombstone and beckoned them to sit at its base. One of the men, the goat, picked up a drum and began softly to play on it. It was a steady rhythm, a simple beat, little louder than the ticking of a grandfather clock.
'Voodoo, the real voodoo,' said Fruit Juice, 'ain't like what you see in the movies. The Yoruba, that's where it came from, say that there's a life force that joins the living, the dead and the unborn into one. That's why we wear the masks. 'Cos all life is one, all things are spirit. When we sacrifice, it ain't a chicken or goat or snake we killing, it's a life. Like our own.'
The drum beat was joined by a second, this time the man in the monkey mask. The rhythm was intense, the first drum echoing the second, but the softness of the sound continued.
'The mask and the drum are one,' Fruit Juice went on. 'They the language and the image of the spirit. When our forefathers were forced into the Catholic religion, all those years ago in Haiti, they mixed the best of the two religions. They took the High Mass and they turned it to how they wanted it. The blood the Catholic priest drank became the blood of a sacrifice. In that way, we finally linked the dead, the living and the unborn. The spirits were one.'
'The tomb you sitting on is Marie Laveau's. She was black, Indian and white blood. She was the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. Was the first one to stick a pin in a doll and hurt, even kill, the spirit of a person through pain. To her, sex was the union, the passing of a spirit through the energy of the body. When she died, it was her daughter, also Marie, who went on and started the exotic dances and sex orgies that people call voodoo. Hell, you want sex, then go down Bourbon Street. Suit everyone's taste. But if you want the spirit, then this is where it sits. This is where the voodoo lives.'
'At a thousand dollars a throw,' Adam whispered to Billie.
'No, brother,' screamed the fat boy from behind the tomb. 'You wanted to pay for it. It was what you wanted.'
Adam was startled, not aware that he had been overheard.
'That's enough,' ordered Fruit Juice. 'Remember, you privileged to be here,' he yelled at Adam. 'Your money just buy you time. You here to see a ceremony. No point in a ceremony if you ain't involved. We going to find your spirit, boy.'
He came towards them, the Creole beauty next to him, and they took one hand each and pulled him to his feet. Billie moved back nervously, suddenly frightened without Adam in front of her.
In the background the drum beat increased, all four drummers now in a simple harmony.
Adam was led to the front of the tomb and turned round, facing the headstone.
The three of them stood still, the Creole girl, the Fruit Juice and Adam.
'What you carrying armour for, boy?' Fruit Juice asked Adam as he pushed up against his side and felt the gun in his pocket.