NUMBER NINE: Katrina's Wrath

FADE IN:

EXT. – GREATER NEW ORLEANS – ARIEL VIEW – NIGHT

Hurricane Katrina approaches New Orleans and Gulf coast. ZOOM IN on the lower ninth ward: A house on North Prieur Street where RUBY rests in JAKE’S arms on a tattered sofa, an eerie silence and the illumination of a single lantern.

EXT. – MONTAGE: WAR AND PEACE – NIGHT AND DAY

The wet, glimmering, silent streets of New Orleans, subdued drinking in the Quarters, blackouts in the outer parishes, juxtaposed by scenes from the Iraq War, the Golden Mosque shattered, Abu Ghraib, Humvees exploding, wailing mothers, blood, death and destruction contrasting with presidential addresses and retired generals pimping the war effort.

We hear Ruby singing a slow, dark version of Cat Stevens' PEACE TRAIN.

I’ve been crying lately
Thinking about the world as it is
Why must we go on hating?
Why can’t we live in bliss?

_________________________________________________________

They say there is a calm before a storm takes the full measure of her wrath and so it was in the lower ninth ward on the night Katrina hit. Before the lights went out, before the television screens went blank, before the radios went silent and all electronic forms of communication went dead, the news was good.

At the last moment, Katrina veered north, hitting sparsely populated land between New Orleans and Biloxi. One man’s good fortune is another’s bad but, in terms of sheer numbers, it was a majestic blessing that New Orleans would be spared.

On any other night, with rumors of Armageddon, a city on the edge of panic, and every criminal mind looking for advantage, Pale Louie would have remained in the dry and secure confines of Burgandy House until the storm passed and normalcy was restored.

This was not any other night. Louie’s rage rattled the chandeliers and sparked a fury of activity in Burgandy House. Ruby was gone, stolen from him while he watched helplessly from his balcony perch. His pride, his wonder, his second lease on life, his jewel, his one true glimpse of perfection was gone and he could not shake the nauseating sense that someone on the inside had to assist this Indian voodoo spirit chief.

How did they escape the underground so quickly and so sure?

He had already reviewed the surveillance tapes. It was not difficult to spot Jake Jones and his companions. Despite some effort at disguise – false plates, wigs, phony moustache – it was not difficult to identify the driver of the Cadillac limousine that deposited him at Burgandy House as a man who often served the interests of the Monk.

Louie’s contacts on the streets reported a black Cadillac limousine heading out of the Quarters not long after the explosion shook the underground.

All signs pointed to the lower ninth ward.

With the storm and all that had transpired, it would not be possible to track down the Monk tonight. He would be in hiding, as much from Katrina and the lawlessness that would likely follow as from Louie.

Revenge would have to wait.

Aside from everything else, his best man the Marquis had taken it on his own initiative to seek refuge on the Queen. By the time Louie contacted him, he was already heading north to wait out Katrina.

He would settle that score later as well.

Louie personally led a small army of loyal soldiers down to the lower ninth. They pounded on doors, knocking them down when necessary, looking for Jake or Ruby or Bones or the Monk or anyone who knew, saw or heard anything about the black Cadillac limousine that carried Ruby away.

The people were already frightened, huddled together in bathrooms, closets, beneath tables and door jams, anywhere they thought would protect them from Katrina’s wrath. They knew Pale Louie or they knew of him and when they saw his face, like a vampire in their darkest nightmare, they took it as an omen, a foreshadowing of doom.

They would have told him anything.

"I ain’t seen nothing, boss," said a woman with three small children, cramped in a hall closet when Louie’s men broke in.

A towering black man, whose empathy had long ago abandoned him in Louie’s charge, raised the back of his hand and a child spoke up.

"I did," he said. "Down on Prieur. We seen ‘em driving down on Prieur, a big black limo."

He pointed in the direction of Reynes Street and Louie narrowed his search.

It was long past midnight when Louie and his men in a small fleet of vehicles arrived at the corner of Reynes and Prieur. The neighborhood was almost entirely dark and silent except for the wind and the pounding rain.

Louie walked to the center of the intersection, looked up and saw him: The shadow of a man pacing on the second story of a house at 927 Prieur. He smiled at how easily he had hunted down his prey.

Revenge would carry a heavy price. Jake Jones would not die quickly. He would know the kind of pain no man should ever know, even in his darkest dreams, until he told everything he could tell. Then he would suffer more.

Louie rationalized that it was only good business. Those who crossed him, defied his wishes, insulted or betrayed him would know that the consequences were merciless and severe. The truth was: Louie was a sadistic monster who enjoyed the face, the sounds and the vision of pain.

He savored the moment, anticipating, visualizing what was about to happen, raising his hand and instructing his men to close ranks behind him.

Jake opened the curtain above and felt a river of terror wash over him.

Louie smiled as their eyes met for the first time.

Something was happening. A sound like a ship ripped from its bearings broke through the howling wind and the rain. Louie’s men looked around in horror. The high pitched, screaming sound of metal beams twisting and bending rose and the ground beneath the street, beneath the houses and buildings began to quake.

Jake saw the terror that only moments ago entered his soul, rendering him helpless, filling him with paralyzing fear, transferred to the soul of Pale Louie.

He could not move as a blast shattered the quiet, unsuspecting neighborhood. It was the sound of the levee breaking replaced in an instant with the sound of a river swallowing the streets of the lower ninth.

Louie and all his men were swept away. The floodwaters of the Industrial Canal would batter them against concrete, brick walls, road signs, houses, cars and uprooted trees, until it found its crest and backtracked, carrying Louie in the undercurrent back down the canal, depositing his lifeless corpse in the waters of Lake Pontchartrain where a thousand souls, victims of Louie’s life of revenge, waited to welcome him home.

Ruby awakened in horror and rushed to Jake’s side, clinging to him for strength and courage as they watched the floodwaters roll in like a thundering train, rising until it seemed no-one would get out alive.

When the rising waters stopped short of sweeping them away, when it seemed the house would hold on to its foundation, when the shaking and roar subsided, Ruby cried and Jake held her firm. Ruby cried for New Orleans and all the people who were not as lucky as they were and would not survive the night. Ruby cried for a world and a god and a lifetime that could create an endless chain of nightmares and suffering.

Ruby cried and all of New Orleans went into mourning.

Someday, far into the future, when the wounds of that night were finally beginning to heal, the boys of Prieur Street would hear the story and sing:

Pale Louie dead and gone
Didn’t leave no one to moan

Pale Louie dead and gone
Didn’t leave no one to mourn

Look out yonder where the levee gave way
Pale Louie dead and gone

You can see Pale Louie floating away
Pale Louie dead and gone

Look out yonder where the levee gave way
Pale Louie dead and gone

You can see Pale Louie in a watery grave
Pale Louie dead and gone

Pale Louie dead and gone
Didn’t leave no one to pray

Pale Louie dead and gone
There ain’t much more to say…

JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES (CROW DOG PRESS) AND GHOST DANCE INSURRECTION (DRY BONES PRESS) – AVAILABLE AT AMAZON.COM. THE CHRONICLES HAVE APPEARED ON THE ALBION MONITOR, PEACE-EARTH-JUSTICE, THE NATIONAL FREE PRESS, PACIFIC FREE PRESS, LEFTWARD, DISSIDENT VOICE AND COUNTERPUNCH. SEE RANDOM JACK: JAZZMANCHRONICLES.BLOGSPOT.COM.