CHAPTER 2
Changes in Latitudes
I rolled into the NO area at oh-dark-thirty and got a room in a town called Gonzalez. It wasn’t near New Orleans, exactly, but on the map there was nada for miles, then suddenly New Orleans. So after gassing up, I hit a Holiday Inn for one last night of sleep. I had the address for Team Hoodoo. I’d check in with them in the morning.
Just lugging my gear into the room told me I was sooo going to enjoy working in Louisiana. I worked up more of a sweat in those few minutes than I’d worked up fighting trolls in Spokane. I already missed the cool mists of the Northwest. Maybe I should have hid out with the Sasquatch. Surely they could keep me out of range of the elves?
I woke up at 0430 minus a few seconds, courtesy of the US Marine Corps and tutelage before that under Mr. Brentwood. For once I hadn’t had a nightmare about spiders. The nightmare was that I had overslept and was late for formation and the senior DI was pissed.
You can take the boy out of Parris Island but you can never get Parris Island out of his head. Zombies, vampires, werewolves, spiders the size of Godzilla, and I was still having drill instructor nightmares.
I did some stretching exercises, pushups and sit-ups, then went out, found a Waffle House and got an egg sandwich, then headed into New Orleans proper. I also got a big Styrofoam cup of sweet tea. That was something I had been missing.
I’d grown up, middle school and high school at least, in Louisville, where I’d gotten addicted to sweet tea. You could not get sweet tea in Seattle or anywhere else in the Pacific Northwest. So that was a benefit. I was back in sweet tea zone. And I’d heard the food was good. I doubted I could find a good bento place but there was probably something to replace it.
There was still fairly light traffic that time of the morning and New Orleans looked almost peaceful.
MHI’s headquarters in Seattle was in a fairly new office park in a decent part of town. The office in New Orleans was in a ghetto. 3398 Washington Street, corner of Washington and Johnson Streets. The building was a fairly standard New Orleans construction: a brick, nearly windowless structure; lower floor with heavy steel doors on the front and side, and a wooden upper with a balcony overlooking Washington Street. There were bars on the upper windows and a heavy barred door leading to the balcony.
It was covered in graffiti. It looked abandoned. I had to think at this time of day it probably was. I wasn’t sure if I had the right address. I looked carefully in the early morning light but there was no sign saying MHI, not even a discreet one. I wasn’t supposed to meet the team lead, Trevor Arnold, until 0830. It was just past seven when I found the place.
I could sit here in the ghetto or cruise around. I decided to sit.
About fifteen minutes later a guy looked in my passenger side window. I had the windows up, the AC on and the stereo playing and appeared to be half asleep. I was a Monster Hunter. Paranoia had better be in your bones or you don’t survive. I’d been discreetly keeping an eye on all the mirrors. I’d seen him walk up. He looked nervous, glancing around as he approached the car.
I leaned over and rolled down the window to see what he wanted. I also took an unnoticeable glance around to see if anybody was with him.
The guy was black, no surprise in the South, in his twenties, wearing a ratty T-shirt and jeans.
“Hey, man,” the guy said, nervously, flashing a mouthful of broken and snaggly teeth. “You, you know, lookin’ for somethin’?”
“Waiting for someone. You know Trevor?”
“Shit,” the man said, clearly trying not to piss himself. “You Hoodoo Squad?”
He was actively trembling and sweating like somebody with malaria.
“New replacement,” I said in a bored tone. “Just waiting for Trevor.”
“Sorry, man,” the guy said, backing away with his hands out. “Sorry, sorry…”
He turned and ran.
“Well, that was odd,” I said, rolling the window back up. I turned on the windshield wipers to get rid of some of the condensation. The last time Honeybear had gotten this steamed up…
Damn elves.
Keeping an eye on the mirror, I saw a few other early risers, or late late nighters, giving my car the eyeball. Bit before eight a couple of younger guys with knee-length shirts and ball caps on sideways took up residence catty-corner to the, hopefully, MHI building. Cars started stopping by.
In Seattle the drug dealers didn’t usually show up till after noon. Props for the work ethic.
One of them eventually swaggered across the street, coming up at an angle that kept him mostly away from my mirrors, and rapped on the back window. He was looking back and forth, ducking up and down, as if checking to see if he was going to take fire. Body down, body side to side, lean forward. It would have been hard to get a head shot if you were a sniper. Otherwise any decent shot could have pegged his center of mass from fifty yards.
“Yo,” he said when I rolled down my driver’s side window. “You best find ’nother place park, homie.” It was an aggressive tone. He had his hand up under his shirt and was staying back over my shoulder where it was harder to get shot. And easy to shoot someone.
“Hoodoo Squad,” I said. “New transfer. Just waitin’ on Trevor.”
“Shit, homie,” the kid said, taking his hand out from under his shirt and holding up his hands. “Sorry, man! Fo’get I say nothin’!” With that he trotted back across the street and engaged in excited conversation with his homies.
So I guess this was the office of the Hoodoo Squad.
“Apparently we have a rep,” I muttered, chuckling. I could imagine what an MHI monster squad, scarily armed and highly trained, could do to your average shoot-sideways-spray-and-pray drug gang.
Bit after eight a battered, gray, late model Toyota Corolla pulled up behind my car and a black guy got out. Five eight, muscular but not ripped, he had his left arm in a sling. In my mirror I could see him give the group on the far corner a chin up as if to say “Hey.” They waved back nervously, ducking again. He was wearing a ball cap for a fishing company and appeared to have a shaved head.
I got out and walked back to his car.
“Trevor?” I asked, holding out my hand. I’d met other team leads but not Arnold. “Chad Gardenier.”
“Ben Carter,” the man said, shaking hands. “Team Second. Trev’s in the hospital, still. He’ll be out by noon.”
He was tired as hell, I could tell.
“What?” I asked.
“Vampire on Seventh Street,” Carter said. “Same stuff, different day. We need to run you down to the parish offices, touch base with SIU, get your permits stamped, maybe have lunch with MCB. You got a place to stay yet?”
“I was going to find a residence hotel till I get somewhere,” I said. Lunch with MCB? The FBI’s Monster Control Bureau officers were usually our biggest pains in the ass.
“You can stay in the team house.” He gestured with his chin. “We’ll take my car. Leave yours.”
“Uh…” I looked around. “I’ve got about a hundred thousand dollars in guns in the trunk and a sword that cost more than a new sports car.”
“Oh, yeah.” Ben reached into his pocket, pulled out a small sticker, peeled off the backing and slapped it on Honeybear’s trunk. “That’ll take care of it.”
The sticker had a shrunken head on it and the caption: MHI Team Hoodoo.
“That’s it?” I asked skeptically.
“Nobody in the whole parish is going to mess with any car with that on its trunk.” Ben pulled out his keys. “You’re driving.”
“Okay,” I said doubtfully. “But I got to get my sword.”
“Feel free,” Ben said in an amused voice. “They’re technically legal to carry in public in New Orleans.”
* * *
“You guys have to get into it with drug gangs often?” I asked.
Mo No Ken was in the front seat taking up room. I never left Mo No Ken somewhere unsecure.
“What do you mean?” Ben said.
“I had a couple of…approaches. One a street dealer and one of the guys across the street. Both of them freaked when they realized I was, as they put it, Hoodoo Squad. I had to guess you guys have busted heads with them before?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Ben said. “Twelfth Street Dons provide mundane security for us. Keep an eye on the building when people aren’t around, make sure nobody messes with our cars, not that anybody in this town would, that sort of thing. The gang owns the building we use, so I guess you’d say they’re our landlords. Not that they ever ask for rent.”
“Okay.”
“This is the New Orleans, son,” Ben said. “Things are different here.”
“Got it,” I said. I didn’t. Not then.
* * *
I started to get different when I met the captain in charge of the Special Investigations Unit. I’d dated, briefly, the new “special actions” captain for Multnomah County, Oregon (Portland area). Kay Shaw was a hot redhead who was as disinterested in a long-term relationship as I was and especially with a Monster Hunter. She had no employees and an office in the basement.
Captain Otis Rivette was in charge of the New Orleans P. D. Special Investigations Unit and had one corner of the top floor of the parish offices and a full staff. He looked as worn out as Ben. He was heavy-set, had thinning yellow hair, a florid complexion, the nose of a heavy drinker and sharp but tired blue eyes.
“Hope you last longer than the last guy,” was Rivette’s greeting while shaking my hand.
“I’ll try, sir.”
Ben had told me if I was that attached to the sword to bring it. Nobody in the offices batted an eye at a guy walking in with a katana. I actually heard cops arguing about whether wights technically counted as zombies or not. Yes. Right out in front of God and everybody.
“Give Candice all your particulars,” Rivette said, leading us back out of the office. “We’ll have all your permits done by this afternoon. How soon can you be rolling?”
“If you don’t care about permits, as soon as I’ve got my armor on, sir.” I was standing there with a sword slung and my 1911 bulging on my hip. I don’t think he cared about my permits. “I’ve got a battalion’s worth of guns and ammo in my trunk.” Assuming it’s still there when I get back.
“Good.” Rivette patted me on the shoulder. It was the sort of pat an oncologist gives you as you’re going out the door after being told you have terminal cancer. “You religious, son?”
“Catholic,” I said.
“Might want to stop by church,” he said. “Get a confession in before you roll. Maybe communion. State of grace, you know.”
“Yes, sir.” I was pretty sure this wasn’t “fucking with the new guy” stuff. He was serious.
Later I took his advice.
“Let’s go meet MCB,” Ben said.
* * *
Generally the only time Monster Hunter International interacted with Monster Control Bureau—the secret government agency dedicated to witness intimidation, disinformation, and every other dirty trick to keep secret the existence of the supernatural—was on missions when MCB would complain about MHI being too indiscreet.
The meeting was in an open-air bar and grill called Maurice’s. Three MCB agents, in polo shirts and dark slacks, weapons in holsters and badges on their belts, were sitting at the bar drinking shots of bourbon. All three had shaved heads. It seemed to be the local style. Maybe it was the heat.
Again, Ben said to bring the sword. So I did. Again, nobody batted an eye. And we were still both packing. I’d taken off my jacket because it was just that freaking hot. Okay, almost nobody batted an eye. A few people you could tell were tourists eyeballed us on the way in. “Two guys with pistols on their belt, one carrying a Jap sword! New Orleans is so weird!”
“Bill, Jody, Bob, this is Chad, the new guy,” Ben said, sitting down at the bar. The bartender, a shapely brunette, didn’t even ask, just laid down the shot glass and poured.
Ben held it up. “Absent companions.”
“Absent companions,” the three agents said and downed their drinks.
I found myself sitting in front of a shot of bourbon. Oh, well, I’m all about fitting in.
“Where did you come from?” one of the agents asked. It sounded pro forma.
“Seattle,” I said.
“Tough town?” another one asked.
“I used to think so,” I said, considering the newly filled shot. I was driving after all.
“Pretty good with that sword?” an agent asked.
“Fair,” I said.
“You look silly carrying it around. Shotgun?”
“I prefer an Uzi .45. I’ve tricked it up various ways. Works for me.”
“Long gun?”
“M14. Barrett for really long.”
“Explosives?”
“Military training only,” I said. “Marine.”
“Pendleton or Parris?” one of them asked, sounding vaguely interested.
“Parris.”
“Pussy. Try mountains.”
“Try sand flies.”
“You flatlanders and your sand flies. Which unit?”
“One-Eight.”
That occasioned a moment of silence.
“Beirut?”
“Yup,” I said. “Minor miracle. Only miracle in my platoon.”
“Okay.”
About then a plate was set down in front of me. It contained some chopped up chicken, greens and grits. More were laid in front of the rest of the group. Nobody had asked me if I wanted any.
My mouth immediately began watering. I’d forgotten how much I missed greens and grits.
The chicken, though, was simply amazing.
“What is this?” I asked, taking another sip of bourbon. If I was going to be rolling tonight, I needed to be vaguely sober.
“Bourbon chicken,” Ben said through his own mouthful.
I held up my cleaned plate to the barmaid and gave her my best puppy-dog eyes.
“More, please?” I asked. “And can I get some sweet tea?”
A guy came in and dumped a bunch of broadsheet papers on the bar and walked out without a word. The barmaid, after placing my order for “more, please,” picked a few up and delivered them.
It was an alternative weekly. The New Orleans Truth Teller. The printing looked as if it had been done by a kindergartner. So did the spelling. The stories though…
MAJIC FIRE HURIRCANE RECKS HAVOC IN NNTIH WARD!
The picture, out of focus, showed what looked like a tornado on fire. It looked badly retouched.
“See you made the front page again, Ben,” one of the agents said, perusing the paper.
“That fucking demon,” Ben said. “I knew I should have brought nitrogen.”
“Loup-garou rampage?” I asked.
“That’s what everybody calls werewolves down here,” one of the agents said. I had no idea which one was Bob or Bill or…
“Was there, in fact, a loup-garou terrorizing…Meteor?”
“Met-ah-ree,” one of the agents corrected. “And yes.”
“And you allow this to be printed?” I said cautiously. MCB would generally find whoever was printing something like this and slip a wire garrote around their neck, First Amendment be damned.
“You kidding?” one of the agents said, taking a sip of bourbon. “We publish it.”
“You what?”
Keeping the supernatural secret was the primary mission of the MCB. Not “protect the constitution,” not “protect and serve.” Keep the reality of the supernatural secret. I’d been told there was a good reason for that from people I trusted. I didn’t like it and generally didn’t like the MCB. But there was a reason and that was good enough for me. I’m a Marine. If senior people said “There’s a reason, Marine,” I accepted that even if I hated the order and its effects. Publishing something like this was the equivalent of a Marine squad defecating on the flag. Unthinkable.
“Best way to tell a lie,” the agent who’d apparently been a Pendleton Marine said. “Tell the truth. Just tell it badly. Nobody from out of town believes any of that stuff. Look at how it’s printed, the spelling, the stories. The person who prints it is obviously delusional. Just another piece of New Orleans color. People bring them home to their friends to show them how crazy New Orleans is.”
“Traditional MCB containment methods have never worked real well in New Orleans.” The agent who said that was a little older and had the aura of being senior. “So we’re trying some atypical methods now.”
“And the MCB in Washington is okay with that?”
The three agents exchanged amused glances.
“They care about results. You know about the First Reason?” the senior agent asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Basically you keep the supernatural secret, because the more people who know about it, the stronger the supernatural gets.”
“New Orleans is why it’s important,” he said. “The First Reason exists so that people don’t know and won’t believe in the supernatural. Because if they know they can curse an enemy with a voodoo doll and some virgin’s blood, they’ll go find a virgin and get the blood. If they know they can call up an Old One and get a promotion, they’ll call up an Old One. The more people get into it, the crazier they get, and Katy bar the door.”
“Only in some parts of this city, the locals all know the supernatural exists and you aren’t going to convince them otherwise,” explained Agent Marine. “Half of them are terrified of houdoun, the rest are practitioners.”
“I was promoted to SAC of this office recently. The way I see it, this is already the most superstitious city in America. My men aren’t going to convince the locals everything they’ve believed for generations is a delusion. So containment in New Orleans isn’t about success or failure, it’s more about holding the line and trying to keep the lid from coming completely off.”
“The important thing is that we get things shut down before too many tourists get involved,” Ben explained. “So Bill here grants certain allowances for us to do our job that would probably be frowned on in other jurisdictions.”
“That’s a polite way of saying that I’m a lot more lenient to you Hunters than you’re used to. You want to keep it that way, don’t fuck this up,” Agent Boss, whose name was apparently Bill, explained. “Most agents see you guys as a pain in our ass, but I see you as an allied resource. Incidents have been on the rise for a while, which is why my predecessor got transferred. DC wants results; an unorthodox city requires unorthodox methods. That means if Hunters need to make some noise in public, as long as you get it locked down fast, I’m willing to look the other way.”
“What do you mean incidents have been on the rise?”
“The graph for New Orleans’ quarterly monster attack numbers looks like a motherfucking rocket ship taking off.” He downed his drink. “And no. We’ve got no idea what’s behind the recent spike. When we find out, you guys will be the first to know.”
That was oddly forthcoming from the MCB. I would find out later that Bill, or Special Agent in Charge William Castro, was considered a cowboy by MCB standards. I would also eventually learn that he was former DEA, had a cocaine habit and a few mistresses, took bribes, made a lot of bad decisions—and he was still probably one of the most dedicated MCB agents I ever met.
“Welcome to hell, Marine. Drink up,” Agent Three said. “Now, ask us why we all have shaved heads.”
“I don’t have to. You don’t want anybody getting a lock of your hair to curse you. Been there.”
“Cursed?” Agent Marine asked.
“Moved here to avoid it,” I said.
“Cut your own hair,” Agent Boss said. “Cueball.”
“Boot style,” Agent Marine said, rubbing his head.
“Keep your toenail and fingernail clippings, too,” Agent Boss said. “Burn them with your hair. Can’t keep from leaving some blood behind but it usually gets contaminated.”
The phone rang and the barmaid answered, then held her hand over the receiver.
“Ben, you here?” she asked.
“Shit,” Ben said, then waved for the phone. Agent Boss’s beeper went off about the same time.
“Shit,” Agent Boss said, looking at it. “Tell them we’re rolling, will you?”
“MCB says they’re rolling,” Ben said into the phone. “Yeah. Maurice’s. What? Okay. I’ll roll…” He thought about it and rotated his arm in a sling. “Somebody. The new guy. Yeah. Bye.”
“I’ve got it,” I said. “What do I got?”
“Zombies at a school,” Ben said.
“Again?” Agent Three said.
“Bullies around here are at least learning to leave nerds alone,” Agent Marine said.
“I’ll take it but I have no clue where anything is,” I said. “And my gear is back at the team house.”
“I’ll give the new guy a ride over and show him where it’s at,” Agent Marine told Ben. “I’m out front.”
“Roger,” I said, standing up and pulling out a hundred. Say what you will about us mercenary Hunters, most of us tip really well.
“I’ve got it,” Ben said.
“Money’s already down,” I said as Agent Marine started out the door. “Hey, honey, when do you get off?”
“I don’t date Hunters,” she said, smiling. “I like to have some idea if a guy’s going to be around next week.”
“Your loss,” I said, grinning. I liked a challenge.