The Seer Renee Page 3

  "Are you hurt?" I asked, standing to help. He jumped to his feet and ran off without saying a word. As he did, another boy ran past me, followed him into the main restaurant, and out the door. I returned to my seat, thinking it strange but not sure why. Still pondering the incident, I noticed what looked like white specks floating on the top of the gumbo. Pretending to sip the soup, I touched it cautiously with my tongue. It tasted bitter—strychnine probably. I pretended to take several spoons full of soup before putting my spoon down and wiping my lips as though I had finished. A few minutes later, Kweku, a local houngan who practiced black magic, appeared at the entrance to the patio with a rattle in one hand and a doll in the other. He stood there, with his arched nose raised like a Ethiopian prince, waiting for everyone to notice him and the noise to die down. Then he began shaking his rattle and waving a Voodoo doll, which had long silver pins stuck in its stomach and chest.

  "I curse you Renee in the name of Ogoun Ge-Rougs for the pain you have caused a man who meant you no harm. For that evil, you will feel the fires of hell. So says Houngan Kweku," he shouted for everyone to hear. With his theatrics done, he turned and left. Now Kweku could pretend his curse made me sick. And strychnine would have made me very sick, possibly critically, depending upon the amount they sprinkled on the gumbo. Because Kweku practiced black magic, he was shunned by most houngans and mambos. The question remained, who paid him and why. I barely tasted my fish as I tried to make sense of it. It didn't help that most of the diners kept sneaking looks in my direction. I'd bet the tourists thought it had been an interesting show put on nightly for their benefit. I had to agree it would entertain them, but I thought it degrading to Vodou. After the restaurant returned to normal, Eloi joined me.

  "What was that about, Renee?"

  "I've no idea. Either someone paid him to curse me, or he thinks his little show will help his business."

  "How so? You didn't fall off your chair or throw up. And I can't believe he thought you would."

  "Do you remember the two boys who ran through here earlier? One dropped strychnine in my gumbo." I held up my hand before Eloi could speak. "Your gumbo is excellent without it."

  "Strychnine! I had thought his act funny and good for business... He could have killed you."

  "I wonder if Kweku knew how much strychnine would make me sick and how much could kill me," I said, wondering whether he's a fool or evil—a Bokor dealing in black magic. I left with a lot of questions and no answers. The walk to Monique's Serpent Temple didn't resolve my questions but helped me relegate them to a tomorrow problem. Today, the sounds of New Orleans and the evening ritual were to be enjoyed. As I entered the temple—a large cement platform covered by a cone-like thatched dome—Mambo Monique met me.

  "Good evening, Renee. I'm glad you could attend." She grasped my hands. "Perhaps the healing ritual tonight will help. Problems are best addressed with a quiet mind."

  "Yes, my mind's in turmoil… and I'm in need of healing. I can't expect the Loa to solve my problems, but I would seek their comfort tonight."

  "Together, we'll seek their help."

  Fifteen men and woman were gathered under the roof of the temple, and another five strolled around the perimeter. Monique began the ceremony by drawing the ve've for Legba-Papa Labas with cornmeal to open the gates of the guardian of the crossroads. The drummers and the healing ritual helped release me from my turmoil, and I returned home feeling refreshed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ken and Sheila

  Ken and Sheila stood, with another man, watching Renee lock the door to her shop and stroll down Bourbon Street in the direction of Canal Street.

  "Harold, follow her and let us know if she decides to return here before we've finished," Ken said. Harold was a small, chubby, nondescript man with a receding hairline, and a round clean-shaved face. Dressed in plain, everyday clothes, he could be only feet away from you all day, and you would be unlikely to remember seeing him, much less realize he had been following you. He nodded and began strolling after Renee.

  "Ready?" Ken asked. Sheila nodded, and they worked their way around to the back of the shop. There she examined the two locks on the door before reaching into her pocket and retrieving a small leather case. Within minutes, she reached down, turned the doorknob, and the door opened. Ken shook his head and grinned. He had worked with Sheila for years, and she never ceased to amaze him. She could fight like a tiger, was an excellent shot, could open any lock, never got rattled, and was dependable. As hired problem-solvers went, she was a perfect business partner and good in bed.

  Once inside, they began a systematic search of the living area. Ken looked on each shelf, in each drawer, and examined every item, making sure it was returned to its original position. Books were opened to ensure nothing was hidden inside, and titles noted. Sheila followed Ken, taking pictures of everything for later review, and doing her own second check. When they finished, they moved into the shop, examined locked cases, and looked for potential hiding places. Sheila went through Renee's appointment book, taking a picture of each page. After assuring themselves nothing was out of place, they exited and relocked the door. It had taken less than an hour.

  "What do you think, Sheila?" Ken asked as they strolled down Royal Street towards their car.

  "I saw nothing to indicate that she was aware of her grandmother's involvement with us. Of course, we haven't proved she isn't aware of us, only that we didn't prove she is," Sheila replied.

  They walked two blocks in silence until they reached a late model BMW. Ken unlocked the door, and they drove to the Windsor Court Hotel where they let the valet take the car.

  "Mr. Smith said they would be in room 1601. I doubt he's our real client, probably some kind of intermediary," Ken said after the elevator door closed.

  "Does it matter? The money's the same." Sheila smiled, running her hand over her hips as if to smooth her skirt. Ken gave a small shudder. How could a woman who looked so beautiful be so dangerous? He'd bet she had a red hourglass on her stomach.

  "Yes, the money is the same, except this time the payoff's big, which means we're playing in the major leagues. Eshe didn't kill herself because they want to know the price of some stock or which horse is going to win the Derby, although I wouldn't mind knowing." When the elevator opened, they made their way to 1601 and knocked. A young man, Tony, who always accompanied the older man, opened the door. Ken assumed he was a bodyguard or personal secretary, or most likely both, since he didn't fit the thug profile. Although he had a slight lump under his arm, he wore an expensive tailored dark gray suit, was clean shaved, and had neatly trimmed hair.

  The older man they knew as Mr. Willis looked to be in his late fifties judging by his gray-streaked hair, slightly lined face, and veined hands. But he appeared more than paid help judging by the way he carried himself and the decisive way he conducted business. He sat relaxing in an overstuffed chair with a drink on a small table next to his elbow and a cigar between his fingers. Ken and Sheila had met with him several times. Willis and his associates were playing this close to the vest. Ken and Sheila knew that Willis and his group had identified Renee's grandmother, Eshe, as having the ability to tell the future, and she subsequently committed suicide. So whatever they wanted, it had major consequences. Ken thought Willis might be government, in which case it could have international consequences. Sheila agreed and wondered which government.

  "Well, Ken, what have you determined about Eshe's granddaughter, Renee?" he asked as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. He waved towards the couch, probably so they didn't have the advantage of height.

  "She claims to be a fortuneteller, so I had her give me a reading. The things she told me were based on observations that most competent fakes could deduce from looking at Sheila and me—we exercise, not married, tourists with good paying jobs, etc. The only dangerous prediction she made was saying we'd have an accident if we drove down Canal Street tomorrow. Now if we believe she can tell the future, we won't drive down Canal Street
, so we'd never know if she was right or not. Of course, if we're going home tomorrow like we said and drove down Canal Street and nothing happened, so what? We searched her home and business but found nothing that indicated she knew why Eshe committed suicide or that she could tell the future. Conversely, we found nothing that indicated she couldn't."

  "Sheila?"

  "The only thing I thought might be strange was her insistence Ken be alone. I thought it a bit overly cautious, given Ken said he didn't mind me being there. And the prediction of an accident could be relying on us believing her or at least not wanting to test faith… or a clever way of proving she's a fake if she was being cautious with us for some reason. I copied her appointment book. Ken and I plan to talk to her clients. They will be a far better indication of her ability to tell the future. I wouldn't make a wager one way or the other at this point."

  "We… I," Willis took a puff of his cigar, waving at Tony as if he meant to include him, "need to know for certain within the next several months, sooner if possible. There will be a bonus if things work out well." He took another puff of his cigar and exhaled with obvious pleasure. "A very nice bonus."

  Tony moved towards the door indicating the meeting was over.

  "What do you think, Sheila?" Ken asked as they left the apartment.

  "We need to be cautious. I have a feeling we are working for powerful people. Unless I'm wrong, that 'We' includes people we may recognize who don't want to be recognized. I'd like that bonus to be in money—not lead."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Locos

  The next day, when I left the shop at lunchtime to do some grocery shopping, Hector was standing outside. When he saw me, he backed up against the wall and raised his hands as if to keep me away.

  "Hello, Hector. Why are you looking so pale? Are you still sick?" I thought he would be wary of me, but this seemed excessive.

  "Kweku said—" He sputtered and tried to press closer to the building. I think he expected to be struck dead. I understood now. He had paid Kweku to curse me for what I did to him. Perception… he thought I cursed him, so he had someone curse me. But obviously, I was stronger than Kweku. I almost laughed.

  "Hector, walk with me," I said with a small smile. Very slowly he inched away from the wall but kept his distance. "Next to me, Hector. I won't bite."

  I started walking slowly and eventually he caught up with me but continued to remain a couple of feet away.

  "Hector, what did you tell the Locos about our little disagreement?" I thought that was nicely put. After several seconds, he answered in a whisper although there was no one close to us.

  "I haven't said anything. They are beginning to whisper behind my back."

  "I have a solution that will benefit both of us. Tell your brothers that you've been suffering from pain all over your body for months. It had gotten so bad you couldn't sleep. You decided to ask me if I had any drugs that could help." I paused to make sure he was following the story. When he nodded, I continued. "I gave you some herbs, which made you violently sick. You thought I had cursed you, so you went to Kweku. Now you realize you were wrong. The herbs purged you of the sickness, and you feel great. Us walking together will confirm you and I aren't fighting. You also realize that Bokor Kweku's magic isn't as great as Mambo Renee's."

  Hector stopped and stared at me for several minutes. Finally, he smiled. "Yes, Mambo Renee. That is exactly what happened. Thank you," he said and gave a small bob of his head before walking off. I hoped Hector would take my solution. I didn't need any more trouble.

  * * *

  Things returned to normal over the next week. I should have enjoyed it, but I kept expecting something to happen. Mid-week an elderly man, somewhere in his fifties, entered the shop and came directly to me rather than looking around. He looked to be a local.

  "Are you Mambo Renee?" His face was brown and craggy from long days in the sun, and his voice was raspy. I nodded.

  "Oatha tells me that you're good at telling the future. Would you do one for me?"

  "Of course. Would tonight be all right? If not, we can arrange for another day."

  "I'm free tonight."

  "Either seven or eight."

  "Seven would be good."

  I pulled out my appointment book and looked up at him with my pen poised over the page.

  "Oh, Samuel. Thank you, Mambo," he said, while scanning the shop. He walked around for a few minutes, then left without a word. I had conflicting emotions about fortunetelling. I love doing them, but I couldn't really help my clients too much without attracting unwanted attention from the unscrupulous, as Granny had. Yet, what was the purpose of seeing the future if I couldn't help those in need? It was very frustrating. I decided to try to help in small ways, which could build me a reputation as a psychic rather than a seer. I planned to develop guidelines that would keep me from exposing the true extent of my gift.

  * * *

  Samuel showed ten minutes early, but I let him in anyway and got him settled at the table. For some reason he looked nervous like someone in a doctor's office waiting for the results of some test.

  "Relax, Samuel. I don't bite, and this doesn't hurt. Is there something you particularly want to know or are concerned about?"

  "Yes, Mambo Renee. My sister is in the hospital for an operation on her heart. She needs the operation, but it's a risky procedure. She could die or need a heart transplant if it isn't successful."

  I hated this kind of scenario. Who wanted to hear a loved one was going to die. One came to a fortuneteller to hear good news. And, I could only see through the person at the table; therefore, I had to interpret his or her actions relative to the other person. Making it more complicated, I had to couch it in vague terms or get a reputation I didn't want.

  "Samuel, place your hands on the table," I asked as I sat down. When he did, I placed my hands over his. He flinched but didn't move his hands. I watched as his life over the next month and a half scrolled before my eyes. His sister lived and appeared well judging from his visits with her while in the hospital and at her home afterward. However, Samuel was going to be in a terrible accident which would leave him crippled. I desperately needed to develop a set of guidelines—soon.

  "Samuel, both you and your sister have a dark cloud of sickness hanging over you. I see your sister's cloud leaving with the operation. But you must seek help or face dire consequences."

  "Who should I seek help from, Mambo? You?"

  "Tell me how you have been feeling lately," I said. A fake would have made up some illness and then charged him for herbs he didn't need.

  "Oh, nothing much. A few headaches, a little dizziness sometimes, and I've been feeling nausea a lot. I think I've been too worried about my sister. Now that you said she'll be all right, it will probably go away." He smiled like I had just solved all his problems including the black cloud I had told him I had seen. I reached up and held his face between my hands. As I suspected, his pupils were dilated.

  "Samuel, have you had a head injury recently?"

  "Yeah, a couple of weeks ago. We hit a small storm, and the gulf was a bit rough. I slipped, pulling in the net. and was thrown against the rail. I hit it headfirst. Lucky I've got a thick head." He tapped his head with a closed fist for effect.

  "I can't help you, Samuel. You have a head injury which needs attention. It may not be serious, but you need it looked at. Promise me you won't drive for any reason until a doctor says it's all right. Promise me, Samuel." I put steel into my voice.

  "Yes, Mambo. I won't drive until you tell me… I mean the doctor."

  I reached out and grabbed his hands. Again, I watched the next few weeks unravel. This time he went to a doctor and didn't drive for the next month. His future had changed because he had made up his mind to take my advice. It was somewhat ironic. This session would prevent a terrible accident, yet the only way to prove I could see the future was for him to ignore my advice. The scenario sounded much like all the other fortunetellers.

&n
bsp; * * *

  Two days later, Oatha visited my shop. She seemed very pleased with herself.

  "Samuel was very impressed with you, Mambo Renee. I told him he would be. He thanked me many times for suggesting you. He said he had scheduled an appointment with a doctor and promised he wouldn't drive before he talked to you again."

  "I'm glad. I believe everything will work out well for him." Certainly better than if he hadn't.

  "I've talked Samuel into attending your celebrations and learn more about Vodou. He liked the idea of you being available for counsel and medical treatment."

  She had become a one-woman crusader for Mambo Renee. As of today, she had recruited three of the ten members in my congregation. I felt pretty good by the end of the day. My fortunetelling clients were growing as well as my congregation, and my shop was showing a modest profit. My gut still ached when I thought about Granny, but I was doing my best to move on as she would have wished. I was ready to celebrate her life rather than mourn her death.

  I closed early and wandered aimlessly down Bourbon Street enjoying being out, watching the people, visiting with other shop owners, and talking with people I knew. As I approached an alleyway, I heard someone pleading and crying. When I looked, two older boys were pulling at a young girl. Without thinking, I shouted and ran towards them. Suddenly, the girl jumped up and disappeared down the alleyway. It had been a ruse, and it was too late to reverse course with the two boys only a few feet from me. Their foreheads identified them as Locos.

  "It's the bitch that has Hector by the balls," the lead youth shouted as he threw all his weight behind a right hand punch to my face. From years of Bagua training, I automatically threw my right forearm up as I turned clockwise. That let his punch whoosh harmlessly by my face. As I rotated, my left fist smashed into his temple. His head jerked left while his body tried unsuccessfully to follow. Like a wound up spring, my body uncoiled counter clockwise, and my right elbow met his face at his jaw line. Something cracked as pain shot down my forearm from the impact. He flew backward into the other boy.