Ivy League professor than a gangster.
Despite all that, he missed some of the nuances of the language that are second nature to a native speaker. When Rashan had chosen a name for the strip club where his office was located, I’d pointed out that, technically, the men’s room was where you put your urinals. I’d suggested the Men’s Club, the Men’s Place…Pussy Galore would have been an improvement.
Rashan wouldn’t budge. He liked the name, and that was the end of the discussion. Most of the clientele probably didn’t notice anyway. For whatever reason, though, the boss’s linguistic blind spot seemed to be at its blindest when it came to naming conventions. I was just glad the outfit didn’t have a name, like a street gang. It would have been embarrassing.
I parked my car in the front row of the lot—I had my own space, so I didn’t have to use the parking spell. Despite the name, the Men’s Room was a nice place. Tasteful, at least by the standards of the pole-dancing industry. The club was closed but a girl was dancing onstage, probably for the boss’s benefit. I made my way to the back stairway and ascended to Rashan’s second-floor office. It had the traditional glass wall looking out over the bar, and I found my boss sitting at a table and watching the main stage with gray, almost colorless eyes.
“She is one of my favorites,” he said, nodding to the dusky-skinned young beauty of pleasantly indeterminate race. “Look at that ass.”
I looked. It was a nice enough ass. “Jesus, boss, you’re old enough to be her long-dead ancestor.”
Rashan laughed and motioned for me to sit down. “You know,” he said, “my people understood the importance of naked dancing girls. It is a sign of this country’s bankrupt culture that you’ve made it into something sleazy.”
“I have nothing against naked dancing girls. Or boys.” My attention drifted to the stage again. “I think it’s the brass poles and disco lights that make it seem sleazy. And maybe the bills tucked in their G-strings. The patrons are a little questionable, the music the girls pick doesn’t help and perhaps—”
“Dominica, tell me what you’ve learned about Jamal,” Rashan interrupted. Rashan always used my real name. I didn’t care for it much.
If you can mentally take a deep breath, I sucked in a cerebral lungful. “It was a hit.”
“Go on,” Rashan said.
“You know about the skinning and crucifixion already. Jamal had been squeezed. The strange thing was, there were no traces of the ritual on him or at the scene. It was like the hitter scrubbed the place when he was done.”
Rashan frowned. “If Jamal was squeezed, it must have been a sorcerer. That suggests another outfit.”
I nodded.
“Tell me what you know about the ritual.”
“That’s what I’m saying, boss, the place was clean.”
“And yet, you were able to learn something.”
It’s hard to play coy with a Sumerian sorcerer. “Yeah,” I said, “the hitter used an artifact in the ritual. It left a mark that wasn’t cleaned up. I was able to get a taste of the juice and find out a little about it.” I told him about the soul jar and what I’d learned about it from my divination spell.
Rashan steepled his fingers and tapped them against his black, neatly trimmed goatee. “Veronique Saint-Germaine. I remember her. She was the strongest sorcerer in the Old South. There were more famous voodoo queens in New Orleans during that period, but only because Saint-Germaine didn’t work the tourists from New York, Boston and Paris.”
“Based on the New Orleans angle and an old photograph I got with my spell, I thought there might be a connection to Papa Danwe.”
“Indeed there is. Papa Danwe was one of Saint-Germaine’s inner circle. He’d come to New Orleans with her from Haiti, after the slave revolt. He murdered her in 1854.”
“Knew she was murdered, didn’t know Papa Danwe did it.”
Rashan shrugged. “It was something everyone knew and no one could prove. Not that anyone would have done anything about it anyway. Survival of the fittest.”
“So I figure, we can put the soul jar at the scene of Jamal’s murder. We can connect Papa Danwe to the jar’s previous owner. He’s got the juice, so he had the means and opportunity.”
“Your theory is tenuous and circumstantial at best,” Rashan said. I started to protest, but he waved me off. “That doesn’t mean you’re not right.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t make any sense. Jamal was good at what he did, but his talents were pretty much limited to tagging. I can’t see how he had enough juice that the Haitian would get anything from squeezing him.”
Rashan shook his head. “There are very few instances in which you would squeeze a sorcerer for power. Any sorcerer strong enough to do it wouldn’t gain anything from doing it, just as you suggest. The usual exception is a group of sorcerers or coven that works together to squeeze a more powerful magician and divides the spoils amongst themselves. In any event, there are much easier ways to acquire power.” Rashan gestured expansively at the strip club. The club was a juice box, and like I said before, Rashan’s lips were on the straw.
“Then what’s the point of squeezing a guy? I guess I wouldn’t call it common, exactly, but it does happen. Everyone knows about it.”
“You squeeze a guy not to procure power in the abstract. As you say, Jamal had precious little of that. You squeeze him to steal his specific power, his unique arcane talent and craft. You take another sorcerer’s juice, it isn’t like taking it from a tag or a line. It’s his juice. You squeeze him to make it yours.”
This was all news to me. “So, Jamal was a tagger. You’re saying Papa Danwe squeezed him to steal his way of doing graffiti magic.”
Rashan nodded. “There can be no other explanation.”
“But why? Jamal was good, okay, but he’s not the only tagger in town. It seems like it’d be a lot easier to just recruit a guy, even if he needed a little training. Why take the risk of hitting a connected guy?”
“Two connected guys,” Rashan corrected, “which is why I called you in. Jimmy Lee’s body was found floating in a storm runoff this morning.”
I’d been expecting another body to turn up, but I hadn’t been expecting it so soon. “Damn,” I said. “No skin?” Rashan nodded.
“I don’t know this guy, boss. What was his thing? Another tagger?”
“No. Jimmy Lee was a warder—defensive magic. He designed protections, locks, alarms, minor defensive spells, that kind of thing.”
I arched my eyebrows. “Important stuff?”
Rashan shook his head. “No, in that respect, Jimmy Lee was rather like Jamal. A valuable asset, but not a critical one.”
“It’s a pattern,” I said. “Jamal was a tagger. He tapped and flowed juice on the outfit’s territory. Jimmy Lee was a defensive guy. Put the two together. Papa Danwe is going after our defenses. He’s making a move.”
“It
