Voodoo Love (And the Curse of Jean Lafitte’s Treasure) (2 page)

             
But it doesn’t matter. I can’t shake Juan Carlos. He is the source of my shadowy midnight dreams and screams, my paranoia—the scratch on the back of my throat that burns each time I smoke my contraband cigarettes. And until this morning, I thought I would never see him in the flesh again.

             
I was wrong.

***

I stood in line at Gator Mart with all the other disgruntled shoppers. I mean, dammit, here it is Friday afternoon, close to one o’clock, everyone in the world and their brother are trying to buy groceries and bam! The power kicks off. A loud collective moan and some colorful uses of the F word I’d never heard before stirred the crowd behind me. The check-out boy looked at us, fear in his face. Disgusted, the shopper before me spat a healthy wad of tobacco on the floor, muttered something in a deep, guttural Cajun accent, and then walked away.

“How’s it going, Billy?” I stepped up to the counter and gave him my best smile.

“F-F-Fine,” Billy stammered, his eyes on the people behind me. Already the anger and frustration level in the room was on the rise. Billy was right to be afraid.  In the small town of
Barataria
,
Louisiana
some have been known to eat their young or feed them to the alligators. It’s all about survival of the fittest down here.

“Do you think you could just take my money for this and ring it up when the power comes back on?”

“Well, I’m really not allowed to do that, Miss Brown,” Billy said, eyeing my purchase. A slight redness blossomed in his cheeks at the box of Trojan condoms--size large--and the bottle of cheap Chardonnay I’d placed on the belt.

“It’s Mrs. Brown,” I pointed out to him. “Not Miss. I’m a married lady. Remember? We learned the correct way to address people when I tutored you last month so you could pass your history class.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I leaned over and opened my purse, revealing its contents to Billy. “Will you look at that? All I have is a twenty. Why don’t I give it to you and then you can ring it up when the power comes back on. Keep the change. After dealing with these upset people, you will need to find whoever it is that buys your underage butt some beer and toss back a few after work. What do you say?”

His eyes practically popped out of his head. I think maybe the Colt .45 snuggling next to my checkbook might have had something to do with that. He took the twenty, bagged my condoms and wine, and gave me a shaky smile. I smiled back. Behind me one of the can displays fell over as a shopper, blinded by the dim light of the store, bumped it.

“Have a nice day,” I told Billy.

Outside the small store, I couldn’t help but laugh.  Eddie would not have approved of my methods. I don’t care though. Sometimes it feels good to fight back.

We moved to Barataria a year ago. It's a small shrimping town right on the bay where I was rescued after Juan Carlos left me. Eddie has told me many times that moving here is a big risk. We might attract the attention of the wrong kind of people, people who are still looking for the same thing Juan and I were after. Of course, since I can't remember how to find the thing we searched for, I don't really see that it matters.

However, the people of Barataria sure remembered me. I guess when you blow up a Coast Guard helicopter and then your town gets invaded by Federal agents who question anyone that crossed their path, people don't tend to be as friendly as they could be. The community of Barataria didn't find it necessary to welcome me with open arms. All of them steered clear at first, crossing to the other side of the street when I approached, and pointing at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. It might not have helped that my gun accidentally fell out of my purse in front of the town council members either.

Geez! What can I say? It slipped out. It's not like it was loaded…much.  The bullet that fired off didn't hurt anyone. I paid for the restoration of that silly statue of Jean Lafitte they have in the town square. And after the tongue lashing Eddie gave me about it, I even apologized to the council.

But in this tight knit community, trivial things are harped on forever. Some hormonally challenged boys started a rumor that I was a gun totin’ hottie. Hard not to be flattered by that one. Unfortunately, only the gun toting part is true.

At 5'6" I'm hardly a super model. My blonde hair is longer than I'd like, and I've gained a pound or two in the last few years. Eddie calls me curvy in front of his buddies at the station, and he's pretty good about looking like it's something he appreciates.

That's one of the reasons I did feel a pinch guilty about embarrassing Eddie. He didn't want to live here in the first place. It's not like cops get many chances for promotions in Barataria, but unlike me, Eddie was actually thriving here. He had friends that would come over and drink beer on Friday nights. He'd joined a bowling league. Every few weeks, he would go out with one of the other cops and fish in the bay.

And what did I have? Nothing. Unless you count the vague memories of a guy I once had the hots for and the feeling that I
had
to be in Barataria. Something called out to me, making my blood race, and my mind know with certainty that the bayou surrounding the bay would never let me go. Not really. 

Outside of the Gator Mart, condoms and wine swinging in the plastic bag, I pushed the unlock button on my key chain, hearing the annoying beep that lets you know you can get in. I was thinking about my plans for the evening and the shocking offer I was going to make my pretend husband. Wrapped in my daydreams, I popped the car door open and glanced across the hood.

  The man stood about six feet away, his brown hair blowing in the wind. He stared at me with his chocolate eyes, a small smile playing across his lips. My bag dropped, shattering the bottle, the liquid invading my sandals. The stench of salt water mingled with the fruity perfume of wine, confusing me and making my heart beat in staccato. Shocked, I glanced down at my feet, but when I looked back up, he was gone. But I know what I saw.

Juan Carlos.

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. The smell of the sea was still in the air. Though my skin prickled with goose bumps, my body physically reacted in another way as I felt desire rush through me. My mind flashed to the vague memory of a warm night, our bodies entwined, and the heat of sex surrounding us. 

What was wrong with me? There was no way I could have seen Juan Carlos. It wasn't possible.

             
Dazed, I collected the box of wine saturated condoms, left the broken bottle on the ground, and slipped into my blue Scion. Paranoia, my old friend, embraced me as I glanced around. Shoppers pulled in and out of their parking spaces but there was no trace of Juan Carlos. I started the car, clicked the radio on, and tried to ignore the shaking in my hands
.

             
Forget the past, forget the past
. I repeated the thought like a little mantra, though I knew many people would argue that I was wrong to want that. I didn't care. As badly as I longed for Juan, as crazy as the dreams sometimes made me, I wasn't sure that remembering all that had happened was good.  But of course, when the past wants to be remembered, it rushes at you with sharp claws, punching holes in the thin lining of the brain that seeks to block it. The memory of my trip to the Big Easy two years ago snuck back in.

New Orleans, for all its culture and delicious food, was a dirty town.  It had a seedy side to it that bubbled and festered in the landscape of
Bourbon Street
and the French Quarter. Despite that, I was half in love with the city, day dreaming about running away from my life as a teacher in
Texas
and living in a courtyard apartment just off of
Canal Street
. The weekend my life changed, I was there for a Girl's Retreat. There were five of us and we were cooking up trouble at a bar called The B Side, listening to Justin Timberlake croon about bringing sexy back.

“Are ya’ll in a sorority or something?” the bartender asked my friend Carla, eyeing her pink feather boa and tight black blouse which showed lots of squishy cleavage. It was our standard look for a night of drunken debauchery.

“Hell, no,” Carla answered with a wink. “We just drink like sorority girls.”

We all laughed and downed the shot which smelled a little like pineapple upside cake. It tasted so good we ordered one more, and after about our fifth shot, the decision was made to move to another club down the street where we could scream Timberlake songs to the wind without the disapproving looks of the seasoned bar patrons in The B Side. So pink boa feathers fluttering, we navigated through the crowd on
Bourbon Street
to our new destination.

Laveau's Lounge was supposed to be a "plethora of cheesy '80's music and good times" or so Carla claimed. I think she got it mixed up with the gay bar, Oz, down the street. From the moment, we stepped in to the place, fate started bearing down on us. Even the air felt heavier in Laveau's, and for a moment, the room swirled in my vision, causing me to lean against the entry wall for support. None of my friends noticed.

"Oh, you gonna git it bad tonight, little girl," a voice whispered in my ear.

Startled, I stepped away from the wall, only to bump into a short woman with gold, hoops dangling from her ears. They caught the light in the dim club and another wave of dizziness hit me. I squinted my eyes to see her better. She looked young, maybe in her late twenties, and her hair was braided into strands all around her head and then covered by a green kerchief which matched the color of her tight fitting dress. It clung to her dark skin, showing off curves I could only dream about having. Her exotic eyes watched me take her in, and I could see just a hint of amusement in them.

"Excuse me," I said, trying to brush by her and follow my friends who were already at the bar.

"Don't be in a rush, Cheri," the woman said, her French accent deepening on the endearment, Cheri. "Sometimes you rush into things that hurt if you aren't careful."

"I guess so." I wasn't really listening to her words. I just wanted to sit down.

"How 'bout you let me read for you," she suggested, holding up a worn pack of cards. "Come on over to my table. Folks around Nola call me Madame Euralie."

"Um…I really shouldn't. My friends are--"

"Sure you should." She cut me off with a smile. "And your friends are drunk. Let them be. The tarot is calling you, sweet girl. Let's see what it has to say."

I don't know why I did it, but I followed her to a table in the back, passing my friends who were too inebriated to notice me.  There were other people in the place, mostly couples, but a few men were scattered around. One of the men had hair so blonde it was almost white, and it stood out in the tiny room. He turned away from me as I passed by, his gaze on my friends at the bar.

"You sit there." Madame Euralie indicated a wooden chair across from her as she sat down at a table tucked away in the corner. The table was covered by a silk black cloth and had a candle in the middle of it surrounded by what looked to be bones and a black, beaded rosary. The candle light cast a soft glow on her brown skin as she shuffled the cards before offering them to me. "Take a deep breath, focus your mind on the cards, and the cut the deck."

I did so. Immediately, she began to lay out the Tarot, muttering softly under her breath. The words were hard to catch and had the cadence of some sort of chant. A few of the cards made her smile and nod, but then I noticed she grew still, studying one of them in particular.

"I thought so," she whispered. "I am never wrong."

"What is it?"