Seconds later knocks, violent, rapid, forceful bangs-in a series of three, pause, three, pause rousted ‘em.
“Luke. Luke? Hey? You up?”
He could hear two-a familiar voice that was low-soft, the other high pitched.
"Jacobs?!" The voice commanded, again, now leaning on the bell for spice.
He stepped onto the hard, cold wooden floor, grabbed a towel and proceeded to the bathroom to throw some water on his face. These people could wait. Gotta clean up. Damn.
“Seriously?”
“Luke! Jacobs!”
“Awright, in a minute.”
Returning to look at himself in a mirror misty from the cool morning dawn dancing with hot steam, he loose-lips horse-like shook - berereuuuuuuffffffffoooasdhh-grabbed a towel-circle-circle. The glass cleared, he took his features- mocha skin, sharp features, large dark brown doe eyes, short cropped hair, part on the side. His slightly angled mustache and goatee needed trimming. That fresh scar on his forehead! Cut on the shoulder; blood matted. Aches.
Knocking returned with inflection. Traveling the few yards to the front door, he peered into peephole in protest.
‘Ahggghughh!’
“Luke?”
“Who else would’t be Job?”
“Ok. Hey. The witness? For Jake? What’s up?”
“Morning Luke.”
“Mornin’ Rose.”
The door opened six inches; a safety chain gave him barrier to hustle them off as needed.
“Run it.”
“Can this wait until it’s solid?”
“Just excited. S’all.”
“Gotta meeting this morning. I‘ll have some’mor information for ya midday. Call me round noon. Nadh. I’ll call your firm, Matos. No worries bruh. You’ll know what I know and when I know.”
“Ok. Ok. Yeah yeah. We’re just, ah. Ya know. Ok ‘den. Fine!
Yeah yeah.”
“Thanks.”
“Thanks.”
He paused, nodded a dismissal, gently slammed the door.
Go down to the jail, visit Jake again before talking to anyone, especially Job his sorry-good-for-nada-narrow minded bitch ass brother. Tell ‘im of the boy's recovery, maybe find out some more information on that case. Jake’d no doubt get excited n’ come clean. Time has a way of doin that!
Cold water in cupped palms splashed ice chilly waves on his face. 6 A.M. He dealt with aces during a brief morning workout, showered, dressed and headed out.
Early sunlight shadows danced along the way. He did the speed limit in a 1976 vintage 2002 model beamer-down Moss, Orleans, Carrolton Avenue. He made the illegal left toward the courthouse parking area on the corner of Broad and Tulane, headed behind the station.
He greeted attendants in the reception area with smile-nods, waited a long enough to sing alone. Boom! Back to reality by the stench, grime, filth and unpleasant feel of the prison. Fifteen minutes ticked. Tick tock. Jake’s section mate had been working a clerk detail and hustled back to tell Jake of an arrival.
“Ya got a visitor.”
The New Orleans Parish Prison Black Hole was down a long corridor, across several doors and security devices, approximately two blocks from the main area. It was the place where serious criminals were kept. Processing stations and the booking sections were nice and bright, decently lit but the back area was damp, dark and scary. Criminals were held in various locations along a series of buildings, according to the extent of their crimes. The least severe the crime, the closer one would be to the front, near the courthouse. The lifers and death row inmates were in the back stations; the rapist-child molester the furthest.
Jake’s heart raced with pounding warm blood.
He frowned. Ma? Job? Rose? Luke? Yeah, Luke, it’d be Luke! He’d been the most frequent visitor and now he’d bring news- home life, books, folk, cases, gossip, world news, some food from dad?
Luke sat behind thick glass partition, starring into grated wires. Guards stood six feet to his rear, others on the other side of the metal/glass doors. He felt the hard metal chair beneath his bottom, rested his elbows on the cold, impersonal metal counter top. Tick tock. Jake walked with a mild smile, small chain hoppin.’ His chin was high face bright.
They mouthed:
"Hey man. Thanks for comin’”
“Heyya Jake. How’ya.”
“Makin it, man.” He faked a grin.
“Thanks again." Jake said before he sat, reached for the phone to speak.
"How’ve you been?"
"About as well as can be expected. Getting quite a bit of reading done, aye?”
“Got something for ya. Huge. Very huge.”
"What da-ya mean Luke?" Jake responded in close whisper to the glass.
“’found the boy.”
"What boy?"
"The boy! Joey. The boy, you know, down in Venice boy."
Jake stood and frowned. “The Boudreaux fella. He’s ah?”
"Yeah, a young man now. And better.”
"Talkin? How? Whatda you mean ya found him?"
Sitting again, Jake steadied his crouched posture with his hands prior to landing into the seat.
"It’s a long story, Jake."
"Got time."
"He came out of that state, broke, out.”
"No longer locked? For good? Permanently?" Jake’s voice raced.
"Won’t know." Luke surveyed the visiting area of the prison’s hardest section. It was dirty, dark, damp, impersonal.
"What happened? How?”
"A murder."
"What? A murder Luke? A murder? Watta talking about?”
Luke’s voice was calm, even. "Yes, a murder. Well, a murder at the Funky Butt. The boy was there, close to the action. Working for New Orleans Sound, on da’ sound board. Maybe it was the shock that brought him around to break his catatonic state.”
"A murder a the Butt?”
"A
