The Cottoncrest Curse: A Novel

Chapter 66

230 Chapter 66 By the time Jake had walked the few blocks from Zig’s house to the Lafayette Cemetery, the gates had long since been locked. Zig had told him they were shut down at 11:30 p.m. every evening to keep the voodoo priestesses out and to prevent this uptown cemetery, several blocks from St. Charles Avenue, from becoming home to the kind of rites and rituals that occurred almost nightly at the St. Louis cemetery near the French Quarter. Jake had tried the gates, just to be sure. The heavy chain was secured firmly with a large padlock. He would have to come again tomorrow night, at dusk, to see if Jenny would show up as he had asked. He had to talk with her. He had to know about their survival. It was almost three in the morning before Jake reached Customhouse Street. He cut a strange figure in the long black coat and widebrimmed black hat that Zig had given him but no stranger than many others whom he passed. Sailors from foreign ships so drunk they lay in the gutter, clutching bottles of whiskey. Soldiers stripped to their waist, carrying their shirts and coats in their hands, looking dazed. Men from the North with bowler hats and canes peering in the doorways and deciding which establishment to frequent. Black men counting out their pennies to see how much they had left, to see if they could afford another round of drinks. Or women. Or both. Men of all races and sizes. A babel of languages surrounded Jake. It was like being back in New York. English. French. Spanish. Italian. German. Chinese. And languages he could not even identify. While the rest of the city slept at this hour, Customhouse Street and the entire nearby neighborhood of Faubourg Tremé was alive. Gas lamps blazed away through open windows. Music came from every doorway, most of which were ajar to welcome anyone who passed by. 231 Laughter drifted from second- and third-story balconies and galleries. Laughter from women, high and seductive. Laughter from men, deep and desirous. “Hey,” a siren’s voice called down, almost directly overhead. Jake looked up. On a wrought-iron balcony right above him, a woman lowered the strap of her dress, revealing a brown breast with a dark-brown nipple. “Yes, you. You want to see more? Come inside and ask for Lulu.” Next to her, a pale white girl, looking no older than fourteen, if that, swirled her skirts so that Jake could see she had nothing on underneath . “You ask for Betsy, now, sugar, and I’ll show you a good time.” Lulu laughed, and her mouth opened into a wide grin revealing three missing teeth. “Hell, if you got enough in your pants—your pants’ pockets, that is—” she cackled, “you can have both of us.” Jake planned to keep moving on down the street, but he stopped. Lulu and Betsy gave each other a knowing glance. But it wasn’t Lulu and Betsy that made Jake pause. It was the sign hanging from the balcony, visible in the glow coming through the open door next to it. There was no writing on the sign. It was merely a picture of a large chair with a wide seat. On the wide seat was a crude picture of a tiny naked lady holding a large bottle with xxx on the label. The chair was red. ...