Max checked the locator app and still no motion. “Dang it, Spider!” He rechecked it every couple of minutes, then said a prayer asking God to please let Spider call before Mrs. Cara’s nine o’clock deadline.
“Hey, Max, can you run across the street and get me some coffee? You can get yourself a cinnamon roll, too, if you want.” Detective Bernos was getting dressed.
“Sure, Dad.” He was going stir crazy anyway, looking at his phone.
Instead of taking the steps, he took the rickety old elevator. When the mirrored doors closed, Max checked his well groomed hair. He tried to psych himself up. “Ok, Max, you’re going to have to do it.” He had seen the look on Julian’s face when the Prince called in that favor. “I have to do something! I can’t let down the boys, but Mrs. Cara is like a m..mother to me.” Max’s eyes teared up. He scrunched his face and wiped his eyes. For a second, his mind had recalled how he had stolen the ring from the store for his mother, then Jesi had mailed the ring to his mother, and finally he saw himself, a pitiful boy who had still not heard from her.
Max steeled himself as the elevator came to a shaky stop. He stepped off the elevator into a completely different dilemma. At the end of the hallway Mrs. Cara was talking to the most despicable, spineless villain in history, Fahad Al Ghamdi. As Fahad spoke, Mrs. Cara painted on a fake smile that did not extend to her eyes. People tend to see what they want to see, which was the reason Fahad didn’t see the way her eyes shot death rays even though she wore a congenial grin.
They say there are no secrets where kids are concerned because they are everywhere and they hear and see more than the grown ups would ever give them credit for. In the same way, Max’s ten year old mind understood the trap Fahad was setting. Max didn’t have to be told about Mrs. Cara’s affection for Bobby Rothering, he had only to look at the piles of letters they exchanged, nor be aware of her weekly visits to him at the State Penitentiary, he had only to see the glossed over look in her eyes when she talked about him. Max knew that besides his Dad, the only people who would testify against Bobby would be Fahad and Cara’s brother Justin Green. He had no proof, but he could deduce like Sherlock Holmes from the way Fahad’s lecherous eyes roamed over Cara when they talked exactly what his nemesis had in mind. He knew the insidious ice cream vendor believed he could coax Spider’s mother into a compromising situation of a sexual origin in exchange for his testimony. Max’s ears burned a scarlet red as he seethed.
“I’m glad you’re not holding a pistol now,” said Wayne Tyler, entering the lobby as well, who had noticed Max’s mean mug and white knuckled clenched fists.
“S’that obvious?”
“Yeah. Let’s break up that little meeting, shall we?”
Max smiled and felt ten feet tall as he followed the gangster he knew was packing a big pistol that probably didn’t have the safety on.
“Wayne!” Cara shouted and ran to hug him.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come see you, Cara bear. I have been so busy with work, but that’s no excuse.”
Mrs. Cara released Wayne. He turned to Fahad. “Are you still here?” He let Fahad get a good view of the pistol handle in his coat. “I mean, kick rocks, boy, move along.”
Fahad’s face flushed at being cowed by the insolent Irishman, but his highly developed sense of self-preservation told his feet to walk while he still could, and walk he did.
Max, who was beaming, for a split second forgot Mrs. Cara’s twenty-four hour deadline said, “I got to run across the street and get my Dad some coffee.”
“Well, don’t get lost, Max. We have things to talk about in…” she looked at her watch, “forty-five minutes.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” His sense of dread returned.
“Let’s go sit outside in the courtyard and catch up,” Wayne suggested.
“Good. I need to talk to you about some stuff,” Cara agreed.

Wayne looked more like a tattooed stump than a crime boss, but either way, he was an ominous figure. Even though he only stood five foot six, he had a mighty muscular frame, the effect of prison weight piles that pushed two and a quarter pounds, complete with every form of jailhouse tattoo designed to strike fear and intimidation. He had an uncanny street sense that heightened his awareness; a byproduct of growing up in the Harvey neighborhood of Mary Poppins, one of New Orleans’ most crime-ridden areas. Even during the city’s notorious crime wave of the nineties when every politician talked about the ninth ward, Mary Poppins was still the place even killers feared. To Wayne, it was home. Even now, his thousand dollar suit couldn’t reform the image, hampered by a three leaf clover design on one side of his neck and an Irish flag with a sword on the other.

Cara had met Wayne ten years earlier in what felt like another lifetime to her. Guillermo worked as a motorcycle mechanic at a bike shop on Magazine Street. He and Rambo had been working all day on Boogie’s motorcycle, trying to fix a bad carburetor. Mrs. Cara had been there waiting on her husband to get off work. He’d said when he was finished to hop on and they’d ride it home and Bobby could walk over and pick it up. Cara, Guillermo, and their toddler son lived on Annunciation Street just a couple of blocks over from Bobby’s place on Camp Street. Their house wasn’t anything fancy but it was a feat for a couple to even put a down payment on a house.
Since that night, Cara asked herself a million times, over and over, wondering if they had just taken a cab, or the streetcar, or even walked, would her hardworking husband still be alive? Since the birth of their son, Guillermo had given up gang banging, well, as much as the Latin Kings would let him give it up, but it was mostly a crime-free 180. He sported some ink of two guns across his stomach and he would joke that they were the only pistols he would ever pack again. The Hernandez’ story was neither unique nor poetic, just a tragic cliché. One drunk driver plus one slick road equaled the man of her dreams with a broken neck and instant death. She’d never forget his rugged, gaunt, unshaven face staring skyward through unseeing eyes. She’d crawled back to him after being flung frantically into a fire hydrant that broke her C4 and C5 vertebrae. Before the day was done, she would find herself in Charity Hospital fighting for her life. The wrecked widow required a million dollars worth of care that lasted over a year. Whether she was aware of it or not, her family brought little Miguel to see his mother every day. As she relearned to walk, her raison d’etre walked alongside her step for step.
There was a cocky, third generation Irish American in the bed next to her at Charity that she was rapidly developing a friendship with. He had a charming wit and was a voracious reader.
Wayne Tyler had been in a high-speed chase with the NOPD when one of their cruisers had clipped his back tire and sent him careening across the Huey P. Long bridge. They had agreed to drop the charges if he wouldn’t sue. In the meantime, he sat in Charity with a fractured pelvis and a rebuilt knee.
Cara was used to her stunning good looks putting men under her spell. Somehow, even though Wayne doted on her and seemed enamored with her in her halo head brace, there was no checking her out when she wasn’t looking. Not even a slipping open-backed robe could make him steal a glance. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it and over time began to develop a complex about his lack of attention to her. She started to think she had lost her edge. This situation was worse than cancer, for it ate at her. It was like superman losing his powers. The charm that her infectious smile and sky blue eyes held over men was as much a part of her as the halo bolted to her skull. It was her ‘go to’ move. She knew she didn’t have a sophists whit to fall back on to coerce her peers with thorough, loquacious logic. Her beauty made people want to please her and though Wayne would have done anything to make her happy, she could tell he was immune to her smile. Between her feeling like she was losing her superpowers, and Wayne’s feeling like an invalid due to massive amount of pain of a fractured pelvis and rebuilt knee, they both had fallen into a depressing state.
Then one day Buddha’s mother and Julian paid a visit. Julian had been attending college at Grambling State in North Louisiana. He had become disillusioned with university life as his effeminate mannerisms that he did his best to disguise were earning him jeers behind his back and causing his athletic ability to be overlooked. Despite his teammates’ prejudices, he had trained and worked with discipline. As he walked through that hospital room door, his shoulders looked like boulders perched on rippling biceps stretching out his Grambling t-shirt. One look at Julian’s adonis figure and Cara knew that if his tastes were ever inclined, Julian could have any woman he desired. She was in the middle of that thought, when in the mirror she spied the hypnotic gaze she was used to seeing in men as they lost themselves in her cornflower eyes. It was fixed upon Wayne’s face as he stared at Julian.
Julian, being very familiar with Charity Hospital’s strict no smoking policy, pushed open the window and said, “Cara, I need a smoke.”
“Julian, you’re an athlete!” Cara rebuked him.
“I know, but between school and Eunice, I’m stressed.”
“How is your mother these days?”
Julian did not answer, but pulled a pack from his tight Levi’s and before he could search for a lighter Wayne had moved faster than any orthopedic surgeon would have thought possible to close the distance between himself and the object of his desire. He pulled a cigarette from his own pack and said, “Here, try these Dunhills. They are a lot better than those.”
Julian noticed that beneath the limp and the hospital gown Wayne had an impressive build. Wayne had always felt his size and strength despite his short stature gave him an edge in his line of work so he was fanatical about his shape. His recent immobility did little to daunt his massive chest that could bench over 300 pounds.
Wayne lit Julian’s cigarette, one of his gifted Dunhills, and Julian remarked that he had seen these before in the tobacco shop but they were expensive.
Wayne smirked and replied with a sheepish grin, “Older men deliver what the young ones promise.”

Cara blushed an azalea pink as she remembered that day. As if she’d conjured him out of her head, Julian materialized and walked into the courtyard, only this wasn’t the well-groomed, laughing, immature, adonis she was used to. He looked like death warmed over. His jogging suit had numerous tears, one in particular threatening to turn a whole leg into shorts. He was covered in dirt from head to toe and walked with a slight limp. To add insult to injury, one fake eyelash clung feebly to his face.
Wayne rose from his chair and instinctively one hand went to his pistol as he barked, “Who did this to you?”
Julian plopped down in the chair next to Wayne. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’m fine, just exhausted.”
Wayne’s eyes were filled with worry, which was why he ignored his usual decorum and placed his hand tenderly on Julian’s in a near unheard of display of public affection. In a tender and low voice that Detective Bernos would never have believed him capable of, Wayne said, “Look, why don’t you go home and get cleaned up and get some rest? I have some business that is gonna take me and the flat foot out of town for a few days.”
“Really? Where to?” Julian looked surprised.
“We got a break in the case. Looks like she used one of the credit cards in Vicksburg, Mississippi.”
“What about Max?” asked Julian.
“He can stay with me. He’s no trouble,” Cara volunteered.
“You need to go get some rest, though.We have another problem. Looks like the Marcellos lost a big bag of video poker money and someone needs to find it. You know, I’m really starting to like this private detective gig. Maybe when this is over, I’ll buy out Frank Finnery and Chaz Bernos’ ll work for me.” He laughed.
With that, Julian said, “Well, see you when you get home.” He feebly attempted to brush off some dirt from his clothes as he stood. Julian wandered off towards the Prince’s corner.
Suddenly Wayne grabbed Cara’s wrist and pulled up her sleeve. Cara instinctively started to pull back, but then she realized that her father figure was checking her for needle marks. She flushed with warmth because she knew the intrusion was fueled by the love he had for her. She rolled the other sleeve up and unbuttoned her collar to show off her track mark-free neck.
When she had met Wayne so many years ago, the thing they had in common was pain. The doctors had treated them both very aggressively with medicine. Addiction had an iron-like grip on both of them. Cara had started with prescription drugs, but as the doctors tried to wean her off, the savage withdrawals proved too much for her to control. She had turned to heroin. She learned later that it was not just the physical pain, but the emotional pain of losing her husband that the drugs were killing. It was not until that fateful day that gave Spider his name that the pain of what she had become outweighed the pain of what she was running from. She found the resolve to change. It took Wayne almost beating a man to death in a fit of aggravated sobriety that put him in prison for five years to seek change.
Cara smiled her patented smile, even though Wayne was immune, and said, “I go to meetings at Bridgehouse, just trying to make it one day at a time.”
“I heard that, but I wanted to see for myself.” His voice softened to that fatherly tone that he only chose to show a select few. “I know your life has been a tornado ever since I met you Cara bear, but I’m always there for you, baby.”
“How about you and your plight with sobriety?”
Wayne pulled out a coin from his pocket that read 18 months sober. “Just got it last night. Went to a meeting at the Rebuild Center.” He let out a breath. He had come to the hard part. He pulled a brown envelope out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table to Cara.
“What’s this for?”
He let her look in the envelope, which was filled with hundred dollar bills, before answering, “Christine.” He watched her face turn from shock to sadness. “I know this is the last thing you wanted to deal with, but Bobby told me when he left Penn, before he got shot, he needed money. I told him I’d pay ten, but a certain twist of fate had made me a little money, so that envelope has twenty-five thousand in it. He is going to need every penny to keep from going to prison forever.” He went on to tell her how he got a racketeering and organized crime charge overturned with the help of a lawyer named Doucet, who had agreed to represent Bobby.

Meanwhile, Fish stood in line waiting for the coffee feeling like Atlas trying to hold up the world on his tiny, almost fifth grade, shoulders. Every time the clock ticked behind the pretty French girl making the coffee it felt like a guillotine blade falling. Finally, after she gave him his father’s coffee, he walked out to the sidewalk, steeling his nerve for his audience with the Prince.
Julian had just finished explaining to the Prince how that had to stay inside the circle until dawn because of a homicidal high school ghost and how Buck was recovering from being attacked by murderous ravens. He confessed how only half of their mission had been successful as they had recovered the fingernail but the girl didn’t have a lock of hair. The Prince’s eyes had narrowed over to Mr. Curtis and he had said, “Eben from de grave dat Merryweather be trouble.” He then told Julian it be alright, he had another way to get them locks. He dismissed Julian and motioned for Max to come over.
Max’s stomach was in knots and his hands were clammy, but before he could speak, the Prince said, “Relax, little gangster. It don’t be a favor you be needin’, you just need to answer dat phone.”
With that, the phone rang. Max’s heart leapt when a picture of Tex appeared on the screen.
“But you gonna be needin’ a favor soon enough. You come back tomorrow and Mr. Curtis and me help you wit dat udder problem.”
Chills pimpled Max’s arms at the Prince’s insight into the Prince’s world. “Thank you, Sir.”
Max answered the phone, “Oh my God, let me talk to Spider.”
“This is Spider. Hey, I need a number out of my phone.”
“No, you need to talk to your Mom.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Dude, she gave me ‘til nine o’clock and she was going to make me tell her everything. Where have you been?!”
“Camping.”
“Good, that’s what I told her. Stick with that story. Man, I was so scared I was going to ask the Prince for help.”
“Fish! You didn’t make any deal with him did you?” Worry crept into Spider’s voice.
“No. I was going to and he told me to answer my phone.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“He told me to come back later and he’d help me with my other problem.”
“What’s your other problem?”
Max’s stomach reknotted. He didn’t want to lie to Spider, but he also didn’t know how far he was willing to go to rid the world of Fahad AlGhamdi. Researching ways to commit the perfect murder was one thing, but snuffing out a human life was definitely crossing a line that separated the good guys from the bad guys. “I…I’m not sure what he was talking about.”
“Well look Fish, whatever it is, you don’t need his help. Help from the Prince always seems to be a double edged sword. Whatever it is, it can wait ‘til we get back and fix it together. Brothers to the bone, right, Fish?”
Max hesitantly answered, “Right, Spider.”
Spider told him the number he needed was under Big Paulie and Max asked him if something happened to Spider’s bike, Maggy.
“Water washed the grease out of the bearings and warped the sprocket, but the bike had a full warranty, so maybe Paulie could overnight me another sprocket.”
Max uh-huh’d in agreement and handed to phone to Mrs. Cara.