The first question that I needed to answer was how I would travel to New Orleans. My budget hadn’t stretched far enough for me to consider owning an automobile. Instead, I rode a bicycle to work and when the weather was bad I took the bus or paid one of my coworkers to come pick me up. I didn’t think I could make it to New Orleans on a bicycle in three weeks, much less in three days.
Although I hadn’t driven a motor vehicle in some time, I did have a drivers license. After all, where I grew up getting one was a rite of passage. Luckily, I had renewed it a couple of months before all of my troubles began, and it had not yet expired.
I didn’t think I would be able to rent a car, though, because my credit was shit and I didn’t have a major credit card. I thought about taking a bus, but after thinking things through, I realized that I would need to acquire some things to equip myself that might be misconstrued by others, and that I would need to obtain some form of transportation for myself.
It’s not like I had any friends left to borrow a vehicle from. Hell, most of my old friends wouldn’t even answer their door if I showed up on their doorstep, much less entrust anything valuable to me.
But on the other side of the coin, I wasn’t exactly loaded. I had some money saved but I worried about what that money would be able to buy me. A line from a song by The Bottle Rockets got stuck in my head. “If a thousand dollar car was truly worth a damn, then why would anybody ever spend ten grand?”
I started scouring Craigslist to find a new ride, but anything that looked reliable enough to drive several hundred miles was out of my price range, and anything in my price range would be a huge gamble. Finally, in desperation, I started looking at motorcycle listings. My eyes eventually came to rest on a listing for a cheap Yamaha dual sport with a screaming 11 horsepower. It was in good shape when I looked at it, and I thought it would get me where I needed to go, just somewhat slowly. With a top speed of 60 miles per hour on level ground, I would have to stay off of the interstates, but I thought I could still make it to New Orleans in time.
So, I took off with a backpack full of clothes and toiletries, a full tank of gas, and all the cash that I could gather in a hurry. All I needed was a sidekick to ride behind me and I could have passed for someone trying to reenact a scene from Dumb and Dumber.
On the way out of town, I stopped at a couple of stores and bought zip ties, duct tape, a couple of wicked looking knives, an action camera, and some snacks for the road. I knew that I also needed a firearm, but was not sure where I would be able to get one because of my criminal record. I hoped something would turn up. If not, perhaps my teammates would be able to hook me up with one.
To get to New Orleans in three days, I knew that I had some long travel days ahead of me on a lot of two-lane highways. I had already wasted half a day making preparations to leave. I couldn’t afford to speed even if my trusty steed was able to manage it because I couldn’t afford to be pulled over. Did I mention that although I had some experience riding motorcycles I didn’t have a motorcycle endorsement on my license? Also, I really hadn’t had any time to shop for liability insurance for the motorcycle.
I decided to cut across Arkansas, cross the Mississippi River at Helena, and take Highway 61 south. I went through a phase in my teenage years when I was heavily into the blues, and I had always wanted to see the Delta. At the end of my second day of travel my bedraggled ass rolled into Clarksdale, Mississippi. I was too tired to see any of the things that I wanted to see, like the three different crossroads where Robert Johnson reportedly sold his soul to the devil to learn to play the guitar. I checked myself into a cheap motel and slept hard.
I dragged myself back on the bike early the next morning. There was still a lot of road remaining, and I had people waiting for me. I made good time in the flat areas of the Delta, but once I reached Vicksburg I was surprised by how hilly the terrain became. Given the limits of my ride, that slowed me down considerably.
Eight hours later, I made it to New Orleans. I checked myself into the cheapest hotel that I could find in the Central Business District, across Canal Street from the French Quarter. It was not very cheap. Then, I attempted to make contact with my team.
I had received general information about the members of my team, and we had exchanged photos and some basic back and forth over the chat app on my ride down. The other members were Rob, Derek and Lacey, last names unknown and first names taken with a grain of salt. Rob, Derek and I were the field team and Lacey was our technical support. She was some sort of computer whiz or hacker. Rob and Lacey were supposed to arrive today, and Derek reported that he had already made it to town yesterday. We were all supposed to meet at Jackson Square early that evening.
After resting for a little bit and getting rehydrated, I made way way through the throngs of tourists in the French Quarter to Jackson Square. Apparently, day drinking was some sort of mandatory activity in the area because I saw many people who were drunk, or drunker than drunk. There was a small part of me who felt a little bit proud. I could see why this could be considered a target-rich environment for abductions or disappearances, and it felt good to play a small part in protecting these people.
When I arrived at Jackson Square, I saw two familiar looking people sitting on a bench facing away from St. Louis Cathedral, Rob and Lacey. Rob seemed to be watching the people milling around the square, and Lacey was engrossed in the laptop she was currently using. As I made my way over to them, I was happy that I wasn’t the last person to arrive. I walked over to them and greeted them.
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“Hi there. So we’re really here and doing this?”
Rob appeared to be in his early twenties, and was somewhat physically imposing. He looked like he worked outdoors, his hair was sun-bleached and his skin tan and weathered. He was maybe 6’ 3” tall and was built like a linebacker.
Lacey was a good fit for New Orleans. She was a smaller lady with hints of Asia in her features. Her short black hair was streaked with crimson, she was wearing all black and had a large ankh necklace hanging prominently from her neck.
She looked up from her computer, gave me a small smile, and said “Hi James. Yeah, I guess we are.”
Rob stood and reached out to shake my hand. I returned his handshake and he started squeezing my hand like he was trying to physically dominate me. It was not a great first impression.
“So, are we just waiting on Derek?” I asked.
Lacey paled a bit and started turning her computer screen towards me. Rob looked at me and said “Read the article.”
I looked at the screen and saw a news article had been pulled up from the Times-Picayune. The title was “Man Found Dead on Esplanade.” I stomach lurched as I started reading the article. A man named Derek Williams of Houston, Texas had been found in the early morning hours a few blocks away on Esplanade Avenue, apparently dead from a number of stab wounds. Police suspected that the death was the result of a robbery gone wrong. They asked that anyone with information about the crime contact them.
I asked “Is that our Derek?”
“Yeah, it is,” Lacey confirmed.
And that, my friends, is when shit started to get real.
“I talked to him yesterday,” Lacey said. “Since he got to town early he was going to start poking around a little. He said he was going to make his way over to Frenchmen Street to get the lay of the land.”
“Do you think this has something to do with why we are here,” I asked. “Or do the police have it right? Could it be some random street crime? I know there is quite a bit in New Orleans.”
“I can’t say for sure, but I know that he was armed when he went out yesterday and he didn’t strike me as an easy target,” Lacey replied. “He told me he was staying at a hotel out by the airport and that he had driven his truck here. If nothing else, we need to find that truck to make certain that our presence does not come to the attention of the police. I don’t really have time for a police interrogation in my schedule this week.”
“There are a bunch of places to park in the area,” Rob interjected. “Do we even know what his truck looks like?”
“I was able to pull up the registration information,” Lacey said, opening a new tab on her computer. “It’s a black Ford F-150 with Texas tags. If we find it I believe I can get us in the truck if it has keyless entry by spoofing the signal, but we need to find it first. I need to get back to my van. I have it parked in an RV park across Rampart in the Treme. I have a lot better tools there.”
“So, do we split up to cover more ground or stay together in the interest of safety?” I asked.
Rob snorted and looked over at me. “I think we will be fine on our own. I’ll cover the surface lots around the river in this area and you head over to Frenchmen and see if the vehicle is parked over there.”
I nodded at his and said “Sounds like a plan. Should we exchange cell numbers so we can stay in contact?”
Lacey reached in her bag and came out with a couple of ear pieces. She handed one to each of us. “These are provided by the organization. If you lose it, you have to pay for it and they are expensive.” She then took a couple of minutes to show up how to use them. “Make sure you check in with location and status every twenty minutes or so.”
I nodded, donned my earpiece and prepared to set off. “I hate to sound like an idiot, but which way do I go to reach Frenchmen Street?”
Lacey pulled up a map on her computer that indicated I should continue walking away from downtown along Decatur Street. Once I passed Esplanade I would run into Frenchmen Street.
I thanked her, waved at Rob, and started walking. And just like the directions said, it was hard to miss. I walked past the French Market and the New Orleans Jazz Museum and reached Esplanade Avenue. It was a wide boulevard with a central area with trees. I noticed I was passing a fire station and that there was a group of homeless-looking people hanging around on the sidewalk across the street.
Frenchmen Street itself was a small district of live music clubs, restaurants and a couple of hotels that petered out at Washington Square. I wandered through the area to the strains of a brass band that was on the street busking for tips. The atmosphere was lively but I didn’t see much public parking in the area. Finally, I got out my phone and checked Google Maps, noticing that there was a public parking lot that was a couple of blocks long a street away bordering Elysian Fields Avenue.
As I strolled into the lot, I wondered how I would search it without looking like I was trying to find a vehicle to burglarize. Once I got there, however, I noticed that the lot was only a few rows wide. I walked slowly through the lot like I was returning to my car. After crossing a street, the lot continued and only a few spots in I saw a black Ford F-150. My heartbeat sped up a little as I walked behind the vehicle. It had Texas tags.
“I think I may have found it,” I broadcast. Lacey provided me with the tag number and it matched. “Yeah, I found it.”
“I’ll head that way,” Rob said. “I will be there in about 15 minutes.”
“I’ll need to bring my van,” Lacey interjected. “It might take me a little bit longer. Traffic in your area is brutal.”
“OK,” I replied. “Let me know when you get close.” Then I walked back over to Frenchmen to listen to the band. I think those few minutes were the last time that I really enjoyed myself before it all happened.