A Jonathon Stone Mystery Novel
Federal Agent Jonathon Stone travels
to the back streets of the French Quarter in New Orleans to find the truth. Was
J.B. Purdue, a Cajun gun for hire, one of the shooters in Dealey Plaza the day
JFK was assassinated or was he just blowing smoke?
Here is an excerpt:
Chapter Ten
French Quarter, New Orleans
It was about seven now and time to revisit the French
Quarter. I had an idea that Purdue had put in my head. I checked my notes
from our interview and there it was. I jotted the name down on a small pad of
paper and headed out the door of my room.
I took the hotel elevator to the main floor and walked to
the bellman’s station.
“I need directions. I am driving alone and I want some sort
of idea where I am going before I start. I need to find a place called the Bayou
Bar,” I said, rechecking my note.
“I’m not familiar with that one. Do you know about where it
is located?”
“It’s supposed to be right off Bourbon Street in the French
Quarter.”
The bellman shook his head. “That’s a new one. Let me check
my French Quarter directory.” He turned several pages and started
running his finger down a list of names.
He stopped abruptly as a porter passed. “Roland. Do you know
where the Bayou Bar is in the Quarter?”
The porter got a big smile on his face. “Oh, yeah. That’s
Papa Jonray’s place. It’s on Bayou Road near the freeway. Best crawfish gumbo
in town.”
The bellman returned to his list. “Here it is. Jonray’s
Bayou Bar. This says it’s in the nine hundred block of Governor Nichollis
Street.”
“That is the old Bayou Road. I think it is called Bayou when
you cross the freeway,” the porter said as he turned and continued carting a
large load of luggage toward the front door. “Y’all have a good time ya hear?”
“Everyone down here seems to say y’all every other word,” I
said to myself as I headed out the front of the hotel.
I left the Hilton and headed toward the French Quarter.
It was crowded again tonight even though there was a light rain falling. I
drove through the narrow streets, dodging streetcars and jaywalkers. I watched
the throng of people and tried to relax.
What was Purdue trying to tell me? “One of the shooters in
Dallas,” he had said. Was he trying to tell me he was involved in the
assassination there? Had Mother Nature uncovered a tale of truth that had
escaped everybody for years?
Maneuvering through the area, I could see the devastation
that Katrina had done. Many of the buildings where still
boarded up and some had large warning letters painted on their outside walls.
While others were just shells of the former structures. You could tell things
were just like they were right after Katrina. This was
definitely the other side of the tracks. It seemed like it was a long way from
Bourbon Street but it was only a few blocks away.
It was Friday night and the crowd was already gathering in
the area. It seemed like every night was a busy night down here. It took a
while to find the place because I had to manage the crowd and all the one-way
streets in the area but finally I was there.
I could see a bar ahead on the right. That’s it. A large
wooden sign hung over the front door. It read, Jonray’s Bayou Bar. Most
of the letters were either faded or peeled off but this looked like the right
place. I parked the car and walked toward the bar.
It was a typical building for the French Quarter with
a second story porch protected by a black iron railing. The bar was located on
a corner with large open windows facing both of the streets. Large wooden
hurricane shutters were leaning against the outside wall of the bar. I guess
someone puts them back in place when they close up or there is a hurricane.
I could hear the jukebox playing loudly a song that I didn’t
recognize. Well I am here; I might as well give it a try. If Purdue could
handle this, I think I could, especially with my Beretta
strapped to my leg.
For not being a mainstream bar there sure were a lot of
people. I was lucky enough to get the last seat at the end of the bar. This
smoke filled bar had survived Katrina but just barely. I
could smell several different odors but I had a hard time deciding what they
were. The swirl of an old ceiling fan tried to move the smoke from the bar area
out the open windows but that wasn’t working well.
The tile on the floor was warped and you could see a
watermark about a foot up the wall. I tried to adjust my stool but it seemed
that one of the legs was a little shorter than the other. Maybe that’s why it
was available. I guess all newcomers got this one.
I could see the bartender at the other end of the bar. The
bar was filled with whiskeys and gins and such and a row of burning candles
lined the shelf above the bottles. The wall behind me was lined with small
tables for two and from where I was sitting it looked like they were all full.
“Hi, darlin’. What can I get y’all?” the bartender asked.
“I’d like a cold bottle of Bud,” I said with emphases on the
cold.
“Do you want a cold mug?” she asked as she turned without
waiting for the answer and opened the cooler behind her. A second later she
plopped the bottle and a frosty mug on the bar in front of me.
“There you go,” the bartender said as she poured my beer and
at the same time giving me the once over. “What’s your name, darlin’?”
“My name is Jon.”
“You look like a John,” she said, motioning with her
head to the other end of the bar where two ladies of the night were pounding
shots.
“You’re a stranger in these parts. What brings y’all down to
the Quarter? Looking for a good time?”
“Actually, a good friend of mine pointed me down here,” I
said, referring to the porter at the hotel. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt
her.
“What is your name?” I asked her.
“My name is Connie but my friends call me CJ.”
“Can I call you CJ?”
“That depends. Are y’all going to be my friend?” she said,
raising her left eyebrow. “I’ll be right back. That damn Leon is still
bothering the ladies at the other end.”
Connie or CJ was a large redhead probably in her
fifties, I would guess. CJ had very large boobs that she was not too bashful to
display. Her white low-cut blouse seemed to be for the customer’s benefit. She
likely was a very attractive lady in her day but I am sure that was a
different story. She was wearing tight black pants that
created a little stomach pouch that hung over a tight gold belt with a silver
chain. CJ would look right at home on the back of a Harley.
She returned.
“Sorry about that. That damn Leon is always trying to get
something for nothing. What do y’all do for a living, Jon?”
“I am a salesman.”
“Oh, a traveling salesman. I have heard about guys like
you,” she said with a laugh.
CJ had a necklace around her neck that separated two half
hidden tattoos. Let’s just call them the left tattoo and the right tattoo. On
her arm was another tattoo. I guess my sightseeing got her attention.
“Y’all like tattoos,” she asked looking down the front of
her blouse.
“I was admiring the one on your arm,” I said.
“Sure you were,” CJ returned with a big smile. She moved
closer to the bar and put her right arm up so I could see it. The tattoo was a
skull with half its mouth missing and a snake coiled around the bottom.
“That’s different. I haven’t seen one like that before.”
“That’s because you are not from around here. The Cajuns,
who have the spirit, know this tattoo.”
“This looks like fun,” I said, looking around the bar.
“The people that come in here are all Quarter Rats.
Most of them have been comin’ in here for years. We never close, you know.
Christ, when we had Katrina we just kept right on
rolling.”
Well that answered the question about who was in charge of
the shutters.
“The health board tried to close us down because we had no
running water. Good ol’ Rayray just had us flush the toilets with draft beer,”
she said laughing.
“Who is Rayray?” I asked.
“He is Papa Jonray’s son. He owns the place now. Papa Jonray
passed a couple years ago. Rayray is not here tonight. He is down on the
gambling boat shaking them bones, you know.”
“You were fortunate to survive Katrina.
It looks like a lot of businesses didn’t make it.”
“Rayray was bound and determined to keep Papa’s place going.
He got ahold of one of them swamp boats, you know. Twice a day he would take
that boat up above the levees and get ice and supplies. There are a lot of
people down here who owe him big time. Papa Jonray was the same way.”
“That sounds quite impressive,” I said.
“We had a great time,” she said. “People were sitting on the
bar with their backs to me with their feet on the stools to keep them out of
the water. We had a full house every day, you know. People would row up in
their boats and everyone would yell in comin’ and a little wave
would come through the door over there. Several people stayed here all night
because their place was gone. They would sleep in them booths over there.”
It takes something to have a good time during a disaster.
“When Papa Jonray built this place he knew the power of the
River, being an old river boat captain and all, so he built this place five
feet or so above the street. He would say if the tombs and graves in Saint Louis Cemetery are above the ground there
is a reason.”
A guy down the bar started banging his glass on the bar for
service.
“Julian was one of them,” she said as he banged his glass
again.
CJ’s eyes got narrow and she turned and headed toward him. I
thought I could see smoke coming from her ears.
“Damn it, Julian, if you don’t want me to throw your ass
out, you better settle down,” she said loudly.
“I thought you were going to talk to the guy down at the
other end all night,” Julian returned.
“You are done Julian,” she said as she picked up his empty
glass. “Get out.”
She dropped his glass in the wash bin and headed back to me.
“That damn Julian. He’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll kiss and
make up. He was a little jealous, I think.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“The more beer he drinks the more he feels like he owns the
place. He is a pretty nice guy when he is sober but that’s not too often. He
thinks because I bend over in front of him and show him a little skin when I
wash the glasses that I am his.”
“That is hard to believe,” I said as I took another look at
her low cut blouse.
“This place was built during World War II when all the
sailors were in town,” CJ continued. “Boy, did the good times roll back then.”
It was time to play my cards.
“You know the reason I really wanted to check this place out
was my dad’s old marine buddy used to talk about this place all the time. Maybe
you remember him? His name was J.B. Purdue.”
CJ’s expression changed immediately. It was like I had
brought back a memory.
“Good ol’ Jean,” she said. “I understand he is dead or
something. Anyway we haven’t seen him around here in a long time.”
“So you know him?”
“Know him. Back in the day, darlin’, he and I were an item,
you know, but it didn’t last very long. Oh maybe six or eight months, I guess.
Then one night he grabbed some young honey and our deal was over.”
She looked down at the bar and I thought I could see a tear.
“Jean and I had some good times. He was a strange dude. He
would just disappear for a while and then he was back. With him you never knew
what was going on.”
I needed her to continue. Maybe there was something here.
“He was a real rounder. Jean liked big jugs,” she said as
she put her hands underneath hers and boosted them up.
I smiled and gave them a look of approval.
“Memories. Jean was like a guy that had just got out of the
joint after doing a hard five. It was like all night long and he was twenty
years older than me.”
She continued. “He never stuck with anyone very long. It was
like he would just change overnight. I bet if you wrote all his girlfriend’s
names on the bathroom wall you would fill up one side anyway.”
“Mr. Purdue served with my dad in the Korean War,” I lied to
her.
“Yeah. He was a regular way back then. I have been here over
thirty years and he was already a fixture when I started. Jean sure was a
storyteller. Boy, could he come up with some shit. Y’all know like stuff you could hardly
believe. Crazy stuff. And he would tell it with such a straight face. You just
sat there and thought that he could not be making that shit up. He once told a
crazy story about going to Guatemala hunting. No one in their right mind is
going to go all the way there just to go hunting.”
If she only knew. Knowing him now, I would believe that
story.
“He made himself out to be a big game hunter. He was always
telling tales of going here and going there. He must have had a good pension
from the service because he always had a roll of money. You know lots of money.
One time he and I were sitting in here and he pulled ten one hundred dollar
bills out of his shirt pocket. He handed me one and said there’s more where
that came from darlin’. I told him not to flash that kind of money in here,
something might happen to him. Jean told
me not to worry; he always had a sidepiece with him. Well I thought he was
blowing smoke until I saw him one night with nothing on except a big old gun
strapped to his leg. Then I understood.”
I looked at CJ. She was not going to be able to tell me much
more than I already knew except to put the idea in my mind that Purdue told
wild stories.
“Jean used to go hunting with Papa Jonray over near
Lafayette. Yeah, they were real tight. You know I think that was just an
excuse. They would bring back pictures but I never saw anything they killed. I
think they went over there to drink whiskey and whore around. There is one of
their pictures on the wall above the food table,” she said, pointing toward the
end of the room.
I bet CJ didn’t have a clue about Purdue’s occupation. If he
made the kills, I think he made, he would not be able to stuff and mount his
trophies on any wall.
“I got to take care of my dirty dishes. Jon, I get off at
four if you’re looking for a good time. Maybe we can hook up after that or are
you still eyeing one of them down there? I don’t mind sharing.”
Was she talking about a trio or just shooting the bull?
I got up and walked over to the pictures on the wall. Sure
enough there was a picture of Purdue and another guy. Both guys had a rifle in
one hand and a can of beer in the other. I am guessing the other one was
Jonray. Another thing I noticed was that CJ appeared to be correct. There was
no kill in the picture.
CJ returned to my end of the bar. “The two ladies at the end
of the bar want to buy us a shot,” she said with a grin. “Tonight’s your night
maybe. Y’all have a lot of choices in here. Take old Josephine over there, next
to the jukebox. She’ll read your palm for a shot of whiskey. Some say it is the
best deal in town.”
“What are we drinking?” I asked.
“That is Cajun Turkey,” she said proudly.
“I have never heard of it.”
“Y’all can only buy it in Louisiana,” she said in a southern
drawl.
We both did a shot; compliments of the ladies. Boy is that
stuff rot gut.
“Jon, y’all should try some of our home cooking. Miss Jean
over there will fix you right up,” she said, pointing to an old black woman
with a bandana around her head.
She was putting something into a metal pan. You could hear
the meat sizzling against the metal from across the room.
“What do you have?” I asked CJ.
“Tonight we have cracklins, boudin and crawfish gumbo,” she
answered.
“I can sure smell the fried peppers.” The smell was so
strong it drowned out the smell of the mold and mess. “I got to ask. What are
cracklins?”
“They are pork skins fried in Miss Jean’s special batter.”
“And the boudin?”
“They are pig rolls with blacken rice. Y’all got to try the
crawfish gumbo, too. It’s a little spicy but y’all will get use to it fast. Help
yourself,” she said, motioning to a table covered with a white tablecloth.
“That sounds great,” I said. I got up and walked over to the
table where Miss Jean was stirring the gumbo. I smiled and nodded to her. She
grinned back showing that half of her front teeth were missing.
I looked at the feast and didn’t know where to start.
Miss Jean pointed at the one of the dishes. “Yo sho’ try the
cracklins firs’. Da get yo heart pumping. Don’ you worry nun. Yo know it ain’t
da seafood dat makes ya fat, its da batter,” she said with a Cajun chuckle.
I fixed a plate and headed back to the bar.
CJ was waiting for me. “It looks like Miss Jean likes you.
That’s good gris-gris. She was Papa Jonray’s cook for over fifty years. He kept
her around for her cookin’ and good luck.”
“Good luck?” I asked.
“The way the story goes, Miss Jean’s momma was a religious
one. You know a healer. She took good care of Papa Jonray with the remedies and
all. Anyway, he liked her because of her people. Her momma had a large
following and I guess Papa Jonray though he was in good hands.”
The jukebox was off now. An old black gentleman was in the
corner of the room with a banjo and an old wooden box on his lap. He was
sitting on an old three-legged stool with what looked like a jug of rum or
something good sitting on the floor beside him. I guess he was going to be the
entertainment tonight as if I hadn’t already been entertained.
“You will like this if you’re looking for something
different. That’s Bo-Daddy,” she said, pointing at the musician. “He going to
play that squeeze box. Is there anything you would like to hear?”
I shook my head no.
Bo-Daddy started playing an old, polished, wooden accordion
and the sound was definitely Cajun. I had to admit I didn’t understand one word
he sang. Each song seemed to get louder and louder. The customers seemed to
like the music as they shouted and danced around like a bunch of Indians around
a campfire.
“No one knows what his real name is,” CJ said. “He reminded
Papa Jonray of Bo Diddley, so the name was hung on
him. He will be shuckin’ and shakin’ in a minute.”
I listened to a couple of tunes and tried to picture Purdue
hanging out here. I could buy that picture.
I finished my beer and motioned to CJ at the other end of the
bar. She walked quickly back. “Jon, y’all sure you don’t want to stick around.
We’ll have a good time. These folks will be dancing in the street before the
night is over.”
“I’ll have to take a rain check. I have an early plane to
catch. Sorry.”
“The next time y’all are in town leave some time for ol’ CJ,
you hear,” she said, blowing me a kiss.
I walked over to Miss Jean who was filling the gumbo pot and
gave her a ten. She gave me one of her toothless smiles and I nodded. I bet she
could tell some stories about this place.
As I left the Bayou Bar, CJ with a harmonica in her mouth,
had moved to the other side of the bar and was in a duo with Bo-Daddy. What a
great time. And I could just visualize Purdue sitting at the bar telling his
wild tales and drinking Captain Morgan.
After today there was some doubt in my mind whether I could
trust Purdue.
James Moushon
Enjoy the read. Check out the sample on Amazon.
