THE FRENCH QUARTER
A Modern-Day New Orleans Mystery
A Novel
Ken Mask
Copyright 2013 Ken Mask,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1258-0
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Back Story
It was early or late, depending on your perspective. The sun would crest the horizon in thirty minutes. The French Quarter was shadowy dawn-dark and quiet while moist mid- summer heat brought the stench of revelry garbage to your nostrils with mixtures of discarded food, urine and vomit.
I parked across from the Louis Armstrong Park on Rampart in front of Mamma Rosa’s, and walked alone for a minute before a hairy right forearm grabbed my neck from behind in a choke hold, the left hand held a knife point in my lower rib cage.
“Come easy. Or, not at all.”
The one thing I needed to do to relieve the fellow of the blade was to have it go into my torso, so I twisted/leaned hard into the dagger (hell, my spleen could take the insult {I’d spend a half day in the ICU} but at least I’d have a chance to fight). The steel drove into my lateral rectus-oblique muscle bed- buried. It worked both to startle my attacker and remove the knife from his hand. I flex forward and broke his right knee with a ‘chapa de coasta’ stomp.
“Aggggghhhhhhhag, fooccccck.”
A second fella moved in…
Don’t these goons know my mission this morning is for the boss, the real boss-not some client.’
“Ma first and yur ‘last’ turn fella. Ya going down.”
Henchman number two swung another hook blade, missing Luke’s right cheek and eye by 2 inches. He had leaned back just enough distance to rotate and kick the moving elbow, which broke like a reverse hinge. Placing his hands on the ground, he swung a kick in the air disabling the ruffian with a strike to the ribs-some of which broke- air gushed out like a deflated tire. This blow suspended the fight and our PI took off. He figured the knife in his muscles should remain to tapenade the blood flow.
Ten feet away, five more prison-fit-goons waited in the wings; he felt a tire iron strike his lower back with solid force followed by a chain rodeo-wrapping both ankles. Luke went down hard against the cold rugged sidewalk. While down, Luke’s attempt to relieve the owner of the weapon met with resistance but he took it after greater, hungry-anger. Rotating while on his back he cold-cocked the others with separate but equal blows against surprised noggins, removed the chains, pulled the knife out of his side-threw it into the trachea of one. He rolled seven feet, cracked two of the filthy mugs with the chain while on one knee, rose and dashed.
‘Huh. Bleedin but cool.’
Suddenly six more arrived and circled, their silhouettes casted ominous shadows in the morning sun. The two largest pushed others into the middle. Luke grabbed the chain, rotated and hooked their legs. While crouched, he produced a gun tucked in an ankle strap, pointed and target practice released a warning shot into one’s knee-all regained posture and halted their advances! He stood, aiming in an arc and looked around for more.
“Done?”
“Neigh!” The tatted-Euro-goon grunted.
Two more came from behind to hustle Luke to the ground, his gun flew into the street and down a gutter. They lifted and tough flung him against a nearby Metro industrial dumpster; two drew guns. Luke flipped into the empty container for brief re-grouping safety.
They shot at decoy debris from one end- Luke lept out the other. Shots missed ringing into the metal. He tackled and rustled two of their associates, the marksmen waited for a good shot at our PI. He avoided several shots by rolling into the street and behind a his car. He searched for his keys to open the trunk. Nowhere!
Damn. There in the street! He saw the key ring with Sky’s locket.
He used the henchman’s tire iron nearby to pry open the trunk, and hopped in.
Retrieving a gun he exited precision-blasting- disabling all except one. This fellow had taken lead in the chest however came on in for more.
Click. Luke’s gun was jammed or empty!
They fought. Up and down the sidewalk; both bleeding. Luke broke the guy’s elbows and both kneecaps with Capeiora kicks. Finishing him with a head butt punch.
‘Got no time for…….... They’ll cool it for a while. I’ll surely find out what they wanted later: mere robbery or some distraught bump I’d put away coming back to haunt me?
Preface
Abelard French and his wife Helen would bake buttermilk cornbread for lunch in an old black skillet, using a flip plate. They often baked cakes and pies close to midnight, letting them cool and having slices with milk for breakfast the next day. They would always leave quite a bit on each pan and give it to the birds. The baked goods never made it past 24 hours.
They were in love after their first handholding on the pier, by the lake near the gym. The gym is where they said they would meet after they met at the department store. The department store was closing and they were being checked out at the same time in the same line. They met 33 years ago today.
Thirty-two years ago today, he made her breakfast-in-sofa. They had fallen asleep after a bon voyage party at a friend’s house. Because she said she was hungry at 4 a.m., he fixed her scrambled eggs with mushrooms and cheese on a piece of cornbread sandwich and served it to her on the sofa. She drank half a cup of orange juice and fell asleep.
It was the cornbread that did it.
Chapter 1
My father used to call this type of summer weather here in Louisiana a “bayou haunt,” speaking mostly of the dampness, not the heat. Rolling down the highway in my new-smelling, opal black, S520 drop-top Mercedes, the wind whistling almost to the music blasting from my stereo, I felt exhilarated. This was my type of weather. The air, filled with the cadence of bullfrogs, birds, crickets, the crackling of trees, and the sights and the smells of deep country Louisiana marshlands, played with all of my senses. Spanish moss hanging from oak, cypress, cedar, willow trees swayed gently in the
