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Alex met us at Boudreaux’s and we dined on the Cardiac Confidence, my name for the lunch that consisted of fried gator, fried smallmouth bass, fried soft-shell crabs, and fried boudin balls bigger than Lucky’s fist. He made one to show us the truth of that statement. We also had beer-battered fried onion rings, fried squash, fried pickles, fried crab-stuffed hot peppers, and fried mushrooms in a basket so greasy it took a handful of paper towels to stop the drippage. Lucky said, exactly as he did the last time I ate here, “My own batter, secret recipe it is, and dat oil is fresh and hot for cooking.” Certainly lard, but while we ate, imminent heart disease seemed worth it. After dinner, while we were disposing of the beer bottles that were illegal to sell in the dry parish but were totally legal to give away for “tips,” I said casually, “Lucky. I remember you telling me that you had family who were killed in the vamp-witch wars here in BO.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, and I thought I saw the flame tattoos on his arm flex in irritation before subsiding. “Priest in dem wars, Father Joseph, he was, before the war.” Lucky was talking about the Civil War, I knew because I had heard the story. “He teach townsfolk how to kill wid stakes and swords. Him made dem crosses to be everywhere, on every house and building, and most dey attacks in town stop. Peoples, dey safe in town until Father Joseph was turn by de suckheads one night. But he strong in de faith. He rise and still in he right mind. Fight de blood/drink/kill temptation. He come to de church and tell dem townspeople to cut off he head. Dey did. But it nearly kill most dem all to kill priest.” His mouth turned down, and he crossed the room, taking a beer from the cooler before sitting at the table with us. When he started again, it was nearly word for word as he had said it last time, history by rote.
“Vamp turn on vamp. Kill each other, they did.” He popped off the top of a LA 31 Boucanée with a shell-shaped bottle opener. The beer was made by Bayou Teche Brewing in Arnaudville, Louisiana, and it smelled of hops and smoked cherrywood. He drank a third of it, tossed back some of his own fried mushrooms, chewed, swallowed, and continued, his eyes faraway as if he saw the story he told.
“But they not always find suckhead to cut off head. One, they stake her. She rise from de grave, she did, and she kill and kill and kill. Church got itself a new priest, Father Matthieu, and he lead a hunt to kill her. Dey take her head and burn her body in center of de streets jus’ befo’ dawn, nex’ morning.” He jutted his jaw outside, to the crossing of Broad Street and Oiseau Avenue.
“Bordelon sisters, witches all, dey come gather up de ashes for to make hex. And Julius, blood-master, hem was, when he hear of all dis, he make war on dey witches. Kill dem mostly. Dem witches, dey make de hex, and de suckheads cain’t eat, cain’t drink. Sick-like. Dey kidnap local doctor, Dr. Leveroux, kill hem when he cain’t cure dem. Leave his body in middle of town, like warning.
“Dem witches, some of my peoples, dey join wid priest and fight dem suckheads. War was everywhere, here, in de bayou”—he pronounced it bi-oh, which sounded odd to me—“in de swamp. My gran-mère be one dem Bordelon sisters, Cally Bordelon. She still alive when war was over. Most dem suckheads, most dem witches, dey dead.”
“Would a priest today help you, join with you, to fight the vamps?” I asked.
Lucky snorted and finished off his beer, one that should be consumed slowly to appreciate all the goodness in the bottle. “Priest today not too interested in helping us no more. Turn he back, he did, when my Shauna marry . . .” He stopped.
“After Shauna married Gabe in the eyes of the Church.”
“Yeah.” Lucky picked up the bottle and dropped it with a clink on the table. “Dat priest sent away. New priest . . . hem witch hater, from new sect of priests. Call demselves Keepers of Truth. Got priests from all different orders and societies. Michaelites, what dey call dem Salesians. Augustinians. Dominicans. And some dem Jesuits. Black Robe what they brung in, hem witch hater even more than local boys.
“What I’m gone do?” he asked me. “My Shauna. You see her. Black hair what she got from me, blue eyes from her mama. Beautiful like angel from day she born, my baby, she is.”
“But not acting like herself due to the hormones and the depression. The priest? We didn’t see the local guy. Black Robe, that’s a Jesuit scholar?” I glanced at Eli and received a scant nod. “They want the corona to be sent to Rome to be studied. Meaning destroyed.”