Thread: Southern Sins: Lust and Voodoo (Xeres & Mr Quixotic)

The sounds, the smell, the sights, the buzz of conversations and laughter, all enveloped in a sea of melancholy and eerie jazz music, assaulted the man's eardrums as dusk turned to night, and the final rays of the sun lit up the sky in an incandescent, orange glow. Michael Brennan had yet to become accustomed to New Orlans, and he continually shifted his bright green eyes to appraise the dolls and trinkets, flared his nostrils to enjoy the aroma of gumbo and spice, and smiled at the men and women of all ages, who attempted, in their lyrical voices, to entice him closer with the promise of magic as he walked. The patois of the locals was obviously distinguishable from the tourists who crowded the streets, lined the porches on the floors of the bars above, and entered businesses where Michael had learned anything was for sale at the right price. The crowds were no greater from those of New York, however, what was on offer was, and he couldn't help but shake his head in wonder at the gullibility of the human species when a small caramel-skinned woman, face wrinkled with age, shook a doll in her hand and touched it against his arm, with the whispered words that it could make all of his dreams come true. A magical doll. How could people still follow superstition in such enlightened times? Did they really believe in what they spoke of, or did they keep the tradition alive only for the benefit of tourists, to make a living, and, in turn, the privileged whites purchased the items, not from desire, need or belief but from a misguided sense of charity or sympathy for the coloureds? He didn't have the answer to those questions, and neither did he have the time to contemplate them further, and despite his interest, not once did Michael cease walking to inspect a stall, finger the trinkets, chat with the locals, or buy an item. The man hadn't entered the district to satiate his desires, or to drink away the filth of the day which on another occasion would have been his purpose, but for another reason entirely Madame Estelle. He placed his fingers around the old woman's wrist to pry her hand away when she followed him, and wove his way through the mass of humanity with a steely resolve that belied his appearance. At a lanky six-foot, two inches tall, with a friendly, open face, warm smile, shock of ginger hair, and hint of an Irish accent, the bespectacled thirty-eight-year old did not cut an imposing figure, but one didn't rise high in the ranks of investigative crime reporting without possessing a certain strength, toughness and determination. Five whites, vanished without a trace. The first two before he'd arrived in the city a month previously with wife Amy in tow, then the others since, in ever increasing succession. All with husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends or parents who'd frantically proclaimed them missing when they hadn't returned home as expected. Only a day had passed with the first before authorities had begun to investigate with every resource at their disposal if it had been blacks, that may have been a week, or a month, possibly not at all and a task-force immediately formed once the second had been reported, but no progress had been made. It was as they'd disappeared off the face of the Earth, and no reasons for their disappearances or commonalities between them had been uncovered. If it hadn't been for one cryptic phone call, Michael would have been as clueless as the authorities. He may well still be, this wasn't the first anonymous tip he'd received, all of which had turned out to be dead-ends or practical jokes, but experience had taught the seasoned reporter to investigate every lead, and follow up each call and off-the-cuff remark, no matter how small or insignificant it appeared. Madame Estelle. The Black Witch sees all. Be careful. It had been the voice of a man, youthful, and with the lilt of a creole, and that was all he'd spoken. The call had come the day prior, and it had taken Michael the best part of twenty-four hours to trace the mysterious Madame Estelle. Now he was here to speak to her. The man chuckled as he recalled the anonymous callers words, and checked the address written on the paper in his hand against the sign that stood outside the small shop entrance, then pushed his way through the door. The Black Witch, indeed. No ninety year old toothless, wrinkled black woman would intimidate Brennan, and neither would the threat of voodoo or impossible curses she believed could protect her. Magic didn't exist, only facts, and that which could be proved and documented. It was why he'd become a journalist, and Madame Estelle would answer his questions, like it or not.