LITMIR.BIZ

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be here.”

      “OK and? Tell ‘im I’m on.”

      "Yeah, says you’re our point guard.”

      “Don’t gemma nagnna of that punk-ass flattery detective.”

      “Sorry.”

      "Late teens, New Orleans Sound Studio guy; from the conversation we had."

      "Know that part. But who is he?"

      "Look, chill I gotta handle a matter first. See ya’ll at the station. We can talk.” Luke abruptly ended the call with his thumb.

      The engine lion-like roared, gears sliding gracefully as he drove off of the grassy embankment. The late afternoon orange sunlight shone in his rearview mirror, having first shopped in the treetops of City Park grand oaks, cypress, cedars, pines.

      A rabbit chase indeed. Varrrrrrrrrrrrrroommm.

      He exited the vehicle, walked around several corners, down Barracks Street, over Decatur, through and adjacent to the French Market down to the Mississippi River wharf.

      Okay, someone’s got some news about Jake’s case. Good. The lead or link needed to bring it all to a head.

      ***

      “That him?”

      The smaller of two humongous, muscular men eagerly asked. He was leaning awkwardly on a greenish-gray pillar at the Governor Nichols Wharf pier, adjacent to the meandering brownish-tan Mississippi River.

      “Ah, yeah.”

      Placing a hook blade, illegal in the States, in his left hand, he positioned the majority of the weapon inside his leather jacket sleeve, gripping the handle in his palm. At that moment, the larger big fella nodded toward the end of the dock as the dance began. The two stood side by side, angled a bit like defensive guards taking on a basketball player driving down the center of the paint lane.

      “You the guys here to talk about Jake?”

      The smaller henchman took a wide, clinched-fist hook, swing at Luke’s head. In reaction, he ducked back, bending his torso and rotating.

      Luke quickly placed his left hand firmly on the cool, irregularly contoured wood of the pier, ignoring the debris, and followed with his right, keeping his eyes fixed on his six-foot, two-inch, 220 pound, full-throttle, muscular antagonist, spiraling into the air with mountain cat agility. You’d think he was attempting to escape the onslaught yet the action picked up a bit when he twisted, his legs held minimally flexed like a horse would in order to kick with its hind legs, the animal force on board, adrenaline flowing, and paused in mid-air, quickly landing a solid strike on the rib cage of the big fella. Knocking the brut against a firm oak pillar, crackling of bone resonated in the air, drowning out sounds of existing seagulls whose peace had been interrupted.

      Ok.

      He thought back to his instructor-all of the years they’d Practiced, how the energy will always stop short of actual contact, the years of training, sweat in morning or afternoon sun near the New Orleans Lakefront in the Capoeira roda- playing pandeiros, drums, atabaques berimbuas, and reco-reco tambourines-sounds rising falling with the intensity of the lead singer. He thought of their play under the majestic Marconi Meadows oaks- bright dogwoods seemingly always in bloom resting in dark brown Mississippi basin mud..

      In a defensive, crouched posture, hands between his knees, fingers spread wide, loosely slapping the wooden planks, he waited for one, both, more to advance, bring on a weapon. Another knife? He pivoted, swinging his left leg six inches from the ground, balancing himself on his crouched right leg and hands, motioning like a manta ray; he landed a solid lick on the side of his opponent’s ankle. Next, a thunderous strike on the gun hand, at the wrist, caused the silver-steel gray weapon to fly over a railing into the river, bouncing first on moss-covered rocky slopes.

      The crunch of bone echoed along the pier with each kick. The other attacker, now limping, garnished a hook blade knife but abandoned the idea of continuing as he looked and acknowledged that the contortion of his mate seemed surreal.

      “I’m done.”

      "Mutherfuchker broke my ankle."

      "This ain't worth it...”

      "Damn. Foaauck!”

      "Ya see that mutheurfuckr move?"

      "See im? See im? Yeah.”

      “Mutherfuhin’ Von-mutherfoucker can keep his itty bitty bread. Fuock dis shiiet.”

      Luke took off at a steady pace, his five-foot-eleven inch 210 pound solid frame flowing down the pier, rabbit pace hopping over large lead chains separating the pillars-down two blocks to his car.

      Over down Chartres Street to Esplanade then left racing forward, away from the riverfront through the 7^th Ward, Mid city past the Degas house toward Bayou St. John.

      The setting sun shone intermittently, in and out, flickering like an old picture show through oak branches of the sprawling mid-city via way. He flipped the visor for shade. Blood filled his neck, face, head. He grinned into the beams all the way.

      Ok. Let’s see now. Damn. Shiiet! S’on the answering machine, transfer to the Jupiter for voice reck. Ok. Ok. Let’s see.

      He pressed ‘PLAY.’

      “Jacobs. Come to the Esplanade pier near the river at sunset. The Governor Nichols Wharf, by the docking station; got new news on Jake. Six." The voice was causal, foreign proper-English-type slow, deliberate.

      Palms cupped his face, fingers strumming his nose; with a long sigh his posture straightened. Sweat rolled down his right temple, breathing increased then settled into slow deep rolling hums, tug boat hums of echoes. After a few moments to reflect on then ignore the trauma, he laid back on the sofa. Bleeding wounds had ceased, aches resolved, fight debris dusted off.

      ‘Fuoock. Damn Jake? Damn!’

      Chapter 2

      “What?”

      A conference of morning black birds perched on the window sill chirped an alarm. Trweetee, trweetee. Red lit‘5:00’ occupied the darkened stillness. Dawn of the fall was a welcomed reminder of a few more hours of sleep. He rolled over, flipped, fluffed the pillow to get a good, new head rest. Trewwtee, treweetee. The songs turned from a sharp alarm to a sweet tender lullaby. He dozed.

      Seconds later knocks, violent, rapid, forceful bangs-in a series of three, pause, three, pause rousted ‘em.

      “Luke. Luke? Hey? You up?”

      He could hear two-a familiar voice that was low-soft, the other high pitched.

      "Jacobs?!" The voice commanded, again, now leaning on the bell for spice.

      He stepped onto the hard, cold wooden floor, grabbed a towel and proceeded to the bathroom to throw some water on his face. These people could wait. Gotta clean up. Damn.

      “Seriously?”

      “Luke! Jacobs!”

      “Awright, in a minute.”

      Returning to look at himself in a mirror misty from the cool morning dawn dancing with hot steam, he loose-lips horse-like shook - berereuuuuuuffffffffoooasdhh-grabbed a towel-circle-circle. The glass cleared, he took his features- mocha skin, sharp features, large dark brown doe eyes, short cropped hair, part on the side. His slightly angled mustache and goatee needed trimming. That fresh scar on his forehead! Cut on the shoulder; blood matted. Aches.

      Knocking returned with inflection. Traveling the few yards to the front door, he peered into peephole in protest.

      ‘Ahggghughh!’

      “Luke?”

      “Who else would’t be Job?”

      “Ok. Hey. The witness? For Jake? What’s up?”

      “Morning

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