Diabla Meets Big Ju Ju

n

  DIABLA

  MEETS

  BIG JU JU

  By

  Karl Tutt

  Copyright Karl Tutt 2014

  All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Thanks to Carolyn and Rosalie, my patient readers, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

  DIABLA MEETS BIG JU JU

  By

  Karl Tutt

  Chapter 1

  “Wash your car, Mister?”

  The speaker was small and very dark. His voice had a childish lilt to it, but he was trying hard to sound like the man he wanted to become. He held a bucket full of sudsy water, and a couple of red rags hung from his back pockets. His eyes danced with a glint that was full of mischief, but had an ancient glow that might become wisdom if he lasted long enough on the streets.

  Ricky looked at him and smiled. “Just washed her, myself. She should be clean.”

  “You don’ look too hard,” he instructed, “water spot, streak on de windshield. I make her shine like a Caddy XLR shud. I give you deal. Full buff for five dollar. Take me ten minute at mos’.”

  Ricky looked at me and laughed under his breath. “We’re in no hurry, are we Dee? Let’s get a cup of coffee and see if this young gentleman is good for his word.”

  “You no worry about Henri. He give you de bes’ bang for de buck you get. You come back, you see you face in de shine.”

  Ricky crouched and got face to face with the tiny entrepreneur. “Okay Henri, I’m trusting you with my car. You do the job, you get paid. Don’t let me down.”

  The child beamed. Ricky stuck his hand out and the kid shook it with almost too much energy. Then he reached deep into his front pocket and pulled out a chamois. He held it up for Ricky to inspect. It was worn, but soft and stainless.

  My partner and I walked down to Chico’s and ordered Columbian black.

  “I used to wash cars when I was kid,” he said, “but we worked cheap. A buck apiece and I was damned glad to have it. Lucky if I made five a day.”

  “Cute kid,” I said, “must be Haitian. I haven’t seen him in the neighborhood before. What? Maybe ten or so?”

  Ricky nodded. “Hey, the kid wants to work. Let him make an honest dollar. Beats hustling weed or shoplifting. If he does a good job, maybe we can find something else for him to do.”

  “You got that right, Sir.”

  We talked about a few cases we were working on, but overall they were pretty damned boring. Nasty divorces, a couple of financial investigations. Ricky Fuenes and I had partnered up after we were asked politely to turn in our badges. We had our own office with our names on the door. That and four quarters might get you a cup of bad coffee. Rod, my former lover, our new junior senator from Florida and secret client, had come through with some leads that had proved financially advantageous. In other words, they paid on time. But the lives of the rich and famous just weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Same petty concerns, same problems as the poor folks, just a little more drama . . . and only because they sometimes made the headlines. It was our job to see that didn’t happen.

  If you’re reading this, you probably read about me before. I’m still Dee Rabow, the tough detective that the boys at the police precinct nicknamed Diabla. It’s Spanish for she-devil. I wish I could tell you it was a compliment, but in cop-speak the rough translation is “bitch.” At times, it fits quite nicely.

  We finished our coffee and ambled back to the car. Henri was right. The hood was a mirror. Ricky could have combed that thick Cuban hair in the reflection. The kid stood nearby at attention like a soldier about to be awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor by our president. He didn’t open his mouth, but true to his word, the work spoke for him. Ricky walked around the Cadillac inspecting every inch, oohing and awing at every curve. He pulled out his silver money clip and extracted a crisp ten dollar bill. Henri reached, then snapped the paper and shoved it in his pocket. “For my momma,” he said with pride.

  Ricky looked at me. I smiled. “You hungry, Henri?”

  “I be big hungry,” he said, grinning.

  We walked a couple of blocks down to the McDonalds’s on the corner. I hadn’t eaten at any of the fast food places in ages, but suddenly a Big Mac and fries was sounding pretty damned good. Ricky was proving a master of conversation. The kid’s last name was Toussaint. Ms. Toussaint managed a t-shirt shop just off the beach. Hadn’t seen his dad since they left Haiti. His shirt was two sizes too big and his shorts had tiny holes in them, maybe from too many washings. But his close cropped hair was clean and he carried the scent of soap. When we went into the hamburger joint, the first thing he did was wash his hands. He came out of the bathroom with a laugh and a smile that decorated every booth.

  I’m usually awfully damned jaded about street kids. They get trapped. Too many absent fathers. Too many mothers who are too busy or just too damned fucked up to care about the kids they’ve brought into this world. They end up in the system. Courts, welfare, petty crime, gangs. They’re filled to the brim with pure, unadulterated anger that often turns into violent rage directed at every person and every institution that crosses their paths. We all pay, but the children are ones who suffer the most. No future, no hope, and a lot of them become human detritus.

  This kid was different. I studied him as we ate. His golden brown eyes flashed within his blue- black skin, but there was nothing malevolent or deceitful in them. He had high cheekbones and full lips. His ten year old body was already that of a little man. I guessed he would become quite handsome as he matured. He talked between bites.

  “My momma manage souvenir shop a couple of blocks off de beach. She work hard. I work hard. I make her proud. I not my brother,” he said.

  “What about your brother?” I asked.

  “He older. My momma say no talk about him. I do what Momma say. We don’ want no trouble with Big Ju Ju.” He shook his head and attacked the second quarter pounder.

  Ricky and I looked at each other. Big Ju Ju? Henri pronounced it with the French accent on the J’s. So who was this guy and why was he trouble? I was curious, but what the hell . . . it was supposed to be a pleasant lunch, not an interrogation.

  In the meantime, the kid was all “please and thank you” mixed in with love and respect for a mother who obviously cared and was willing to do something about it. It lifted me, and sometimes I need that desperately. Ricky was obviously overwhelmed. He sucked up the food -- and Henri -- like a man who hadn’t had a meal this satisfying in eons. When we were finished, Henri hugged Ricky. Then the little cavalier took my hand like an aspiring Sir Walter Raleigh, and kissed it gently. How the hell can you resist that? We told him to come back. There would be more work, and more hamburgers.