Fox is back and he's strayed far from Philly.
The lastest with Kid Louie in the Big Easy:
The lastest with Kid Louie in the Big Easy:
Voodoo Drug Lord of New Orleans by T. Fox Dunham
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“Fuck New Orleans, Vinnie,” Louie said. He fisted a metal bar and
hit the table. Clay pots cracked, abandoned on the shelves. Bands played in the
street night and day, and if you pressed your palm to the buildings of the
French Quarter or the pavement of the street, you felt the city’s pulse—a living
soul. “When is the voodoo-asshole coming?”
“Just fucking relax. It’s a cool city. The women are naked.” We’d
witnessed their slim bodies painted in red and blue and yellow streaks, standing
outside their clubs, wiggling or contorting, showing off their tits as dusk darkened
Bourbon Street.
“What time did Dominic say this asshole was going to be here?”
“Shut your mouth, Lou. Check the front gate again. He’s some
highly respected Voodoo priest.”
Louie checked it and returned. “A lot of shit.” I’d already bought
him a few Hurricanes at various bars down Royal Street, hoping it would calm
him down. He stood squat as a pug and got anxious in new places—away from our
usual Philly territory where he knew the people, the cops, the dark corners
where he could hide. He pounded his palm with his weighted fist. This had been
a pottery store, and we hung out in the back, invited in by the owner. Business
was to be done on this shitty little porch with an exposed roof woven of
wrought black metal that fed around the ceiling and enclosed the front with a
door that could be locked. I noted that.
“They call him Doctor Vulture. Voodoo royalty.”
“You have called my name, and I appear.” The voice bellowed like a
cello played by delicate hands. The dude walked in with a white fur coat and
white suit, feather out of his fedora and a pair of sunglasses. A couple of his
guys hung out by the door, watching us. I dropped the suitcase full of cash
from Dominick and opened it. Doctor Vulture’s eyes lit up at the grassy bills. “Gentleman
of Philadelphia,” he said. He stank like a slaughter hog, rotting in the sun.
“Fuck me,” Louie whispered. I put my hand on his arm: Don’t fuck
this up.
The good Doctor dropped a clear Ziploc bag on the table. White
powder filled it. “The finest product for North America—this young country.” Crow
feathers slipped from his sleeve onto the table.
Louie cracked up. “You really think you’re the shit?”
“A wild dog on a leash. Are you his keeper?” I rubbed my temples.
“We have the money. Let’s keep this easy.”
“You bring this rabid dog into my territory, allow him to
disrespect me?”
Who the fuck was this
douche? Acting like royalty? One of his competitors was already looking to clip
him. It would probably be a bullet from one of his men, waiting on the outside.
He came in here alone and obviously didn’t think we were a threat. That was the
idea—a couple of nobody-assholes from Philly.
My partner knew the right moment. Louie ran ahead and slammed the
iron grating at the front entrance, locking it, and I pulled out my Luger from
my belt. I loved the old fashioned piece, and this one had sentimentality to
me. Doctor Vulture saw it and pulled a small capsule from his lapel pocket then
popped it. The air turned misty. I inhaled the powder.
“Vulture. Crow. Raven. See my wings?” He extended his arm, and a
white crow morphed from his body. “You did a deal, came to kill me? One of my
competitors? They have no power.” I couldn’t tell the man from the bird, but I
could feel my head drugged. I knew enough about narcotics to recognize it.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Louie yelled, running for me. He
helped me focus
The bird swept its wings, and I aimed the Luger for its head. I
pulled the trigger, and a red mushroom blew from the gun, knocking me into the
back wall. The bird squawked then collapsed to the floor.
“Out the back, asshole,” Louie yelled and dragged me to the escape
we’d planned.
“White raven,” Vincent said. “So Beautiful.”
